_ Open, I charge ye. In the Council's name!
_C's M._ 'Tis the Official Red-legged Scissorman, who doubtless calls
to thank me for the post.
_Con. (with a gloomy determination)._ More like his business, Madam,
is with--Me!
_C's. M. (suddenly enlightened)._ A Suck-a-thumb?... _you_, CONRAD?
_C. (desperately)._ Ay,--from birth!
_[Profound silence, as Mother and Son face one another. The knocking
is renewed._
_C's. M._ Oh, this is horrible--it must not be! I'll shoot the bolt
and barricade the door.
[CONRAD _places himself before it, and addresses his Mother in a tone
of incisive irony._
_Con._ Why, where is all the zeal you showed of late? is't thus that
you the Roman Matron play? Trick not a statute of your own devising.
Come, your official's waiting--let him in! (C's. M. _shrinks back
appalled._) So? you refuse!--(_throwing open door_)--then--enter,
Scissorman!
_[Enter the_ Scissorman, _masked and in red tights, with his hand upon
the hilt of his shears._
_The S. (in a passionless tone)._ Though sorry to create
unpleasantness, I claim the thumbs of this young gentleman, which my
own eyes have marked between his lips.
_C's. M. (frantically).
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