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Frank. What is the matter? what strange turn is this?

Theo. O cursed sanguine fool! could I not think— She moves, she moves!—rouse thee, my gentle Orra! 'Tis no strange voice that calls thee; 'tis thy friend.

Frank. She opens now her eyes.

Theo.But, oh, that look!

Frank. She knows thee not, but gives a stifled groan. And sinks again in stupor. Make no more fruitless lamentation here, But bear her hence? the cool and open air May soon restore her. Let us, while we may, Occasion seize, lest we should be surprised. [, Orra borne off in a state of insensibility.