Mrs. Roberts monologue — The Sleeping-Car: A Farce

Well, I don't know. I suppose I've been worked up a little about meeting Willis, and wondering how he'll look, and all. We can't _know_ each other, of course. It doesn't stand to reason that if he's been out there for twelve years, ever since I was a child, though we've corresponded regularly--at least _I_ have--that he could recognize me; not at the first glance, you know. He'll have a full beard; and then I've got married, and here's the baby. Oh, _no_! he'll never guess who it is in the world. Photographs really amount to nothing in such a case. I wish we were at home, and it was all over. I wish he had written some particulars, instead of telegraphing from Ogden, "Be with you on the 7 A.M., Wednesday."