I'm sure of that.
L. (pensively). I'm sorry for it, Lucilla.
LUCILLA. So am I, indeed.
L. What are you sorry with, Lucilla?
LUCILLA. Sorry with, sir?
L. Yes; I mean, where do you feel sorry; in your feet?
LUCILLA (laughing a little). No, sir, of course.
L. In your shoulders, then?
LUCILLA. No, sir.
L. You are sure of that? Because, I fear, sorrow in the shoulders
would not be worth much.
LUCILLA. I suppose I feel it in my heart, if I really am sorry.
L. If you really are! Do you mean to say that you are sure you are
utterly wicked, and yet do not care?
LUCILLA. No, indeed; I have cried about it often.
L. Well, then, you are sorry in your heart?
LUCILLA. Yes, when the sorrow is worth anything.
L. Even if it be not, it cannot be anywhere else but there. It is
not the crystalline lens of your eyes which is sorry, when you
cry?
LUCILLA. No, sir, of course.
L. Then, have you two hearts; one of which is wicked, and the
other grieved? or is one side of it sorry for the other side?
LUCILLA. (weary of cross-examination, and a little vexed). Indeed,
sir, you know I can't understand it; but you know how it is
written--"another law in my members, warring against the law of my
mind."
L. Yes, Lucilla, I know how it is written; but I do not see that
it will help us to know that, if we neither understand what is
written, nor feel it.
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