Don Lorenzo. I am indeed miserable.
Doña Ángela. You miserable! Inés it is who is miserable, not you, who doubtless find assured ineffable joy and divine consolation in contemplating your own moral perfection. [Ironically.]
Don Lorenzo. How ill you judge me, and how little you understand me!
Doña Ángela. I judge you ill, and yet humbly admire the fruit of your sainthood! That I do not understand you, I admit, for superior beings such as you are not within reach of so mediocre an intelligence as mine.
Don Lorenzo. Ángela, your words pierce my heart like a sharp dagger.
Doña Ángela. Your heart! impossible.
Don Lorenzo. But what would you have me do? Speak, advise, decide—bring light to a mind that gropes among shadows.
Doña Ángela. What would I have you do? Whatever you like now. Only save your child. Place no fresh obstacle to this marriage. Don't continue to irritate the duchess's pride by brutal and futile revelations. Don't make it impossible for us to remedy the evil you have done by any new explosion.
Don Lorenzo. Frankly, then, you would have me hold my tongue.
Doña Ángela. That is it. Hold your tongue.
Don Lorenzo. But that would be infamous.
Doña Ángela. I know nothing about it. I feel, I can't argue.
Don Lorenzo. My whole soul rises up in revolt against the idea. To become an accomplice in the most repugnant, because most cowardly, of crimes! To enjoy
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