From a perfect stranger," explained she; "so it must be true." "Mrs.Woffington," said Mr.Triplet to his wife.

Mrs.Woffington planted herself in the middle of the floor, and with a comical glance, setting her arms akimbo, uttered a shrill whistle.
"Now you will see another angel--there are two sorts of them." Pompey came in with a basket; she took it from him.
"Lucifer, avaunt!" cried she, in a terrible tone, that drove him to the wall; "and wait outside the door," added she, conversationally.
"I heard you were ill, ma'am, and I have brought you some physic--black draughts from Burgundy;" and she smiled.

And, recovered from their first surprise, young and old began to thaw beneath that witching, irresistible smile.

"Mrs.Triplet, I have come to give your husband a sitting; will you allow me to eat my little luncheon with you?
I am so hungry." Then she clapped her hands, and in ran Pompey.

She sent him for a pie she professed to have fallen in love with at the corner of the street.
"Mother," said Alcibiades, "will the lady give me a bit of her pie ?" "Hush! you rude boy!" cried the mother.
"She is not much of a lady if she does not," cried Mrs.Woffington.
"Now, children, first let us look at--ahem--a comedy.