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unearths some literary gems.
From The Way of the World, by William Congreve:
***WIT. My dear, I ask ten thousand pardons. Gad, I have forgot what I was going to say to you.MIRA. I thank you heartily, heartily.***[Is this the Restoration equivalent of having oneself paged at the Beverly Hills Hotel swimming pool?]As soon as your back was turned—whip he was gone; then trip to his lodging, clap on a hood and scarf and a mask, slap into a hackney-coach, and drive hither to the door again in a trice; where he would send in for himself; that I mean, call for himself, wait for himself, nay, and what’s more, not finding himself, sometimes leave a letter for himself.***
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