"I have a question to ask
you. Do you know whose Skin you are in at this moment? Do you know
that you are dead and buried in London; and that you have risen like a
phoenix from the ashes of Mrs. Wragge? No! you evidently don't know it.
This is perfectly disgraceful. What is your name?"
"Matilda," answered Mrs. Wragge, in a state of the densest bewilderment.
"Nothing of the sort!" cried the captain, fiercely. "How dare you tell
me your name's Matilda? Your name is Julia. Who am I?--Hold that basket
of sandwiches straight, or I'll pitch it into the sea!--Who am I?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Wragge, meekly taking refuge in the negative
side of the question this time.
"Sit down!" said her husband, pointing to the low garden wall of North
Shingles Villa. "More to the right! More still! That will do. You don't
know?" repeated the captain, sternly confronting his wife as soon as
he had contrived, by seating her, to place her face on a level with his
own. "Don't let me hear you say that a second time. Don't let me have
a woman who doesn't know who I am to operate on my beard to-morrow
morning. Look at me! More to the left--more still--that will do.
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