LARK. In the arm.
MRS. L. Wounded! Mr. Woodcock wounded!
LARK. Yes. (_recollecting_) No; that is---- (_aside_) Zounds! nothing
was said about _that._
MRS. L. Poor Mr. Woodcock! Which arm was it?
LARK. Eh--why--the arm that held the sword!
MRS. L. The sword!
LARK. Yes--no, I mean the pistol! (_aside_) Now to find Woodcock, and
put him on his guard. (_turns and sees WOODCOCK, who enters at L.,
with his left arm in a sling--aside_) Huzzah! he's got his arm in a
sling!
MRS. L. (_looking at WOODCOCK, who comes slowly forward, as if very
much ashamed of himself_) It is true, then. Unhappy man, I pity you!
WOOD. (_assuming a very penitential voice and manner_) I don't deserve
it.
LARK. (_aside_) Confound it! he's got the _wrong_ arm in the sling!
Ahem! (_making violent signs to WOODCOCK to change arms_)
MRS. L. (_looking at WOODCOCK_) Why, how's this? (_to LARKINGS_) You
told me Mr. Woodcock's wound was in the right arm!
LARK. (_confused, R._) Did I?