And who knows yet? We have to see if Don Lorenzo has any explanation to offer—any proof
Doña Ángela. What proof can he have? Even the dying Juana cried out to him, 'No, no, you are not my son,' while he, frenzied and delirious, grasped her in his arms and strove to force an impossible confession from the half dead body, calling her 'mother' in the strident voice of dementia. No, you can't console me, friend. It is useless. I foresee that our misfortune is inevitable.
Dr. Tomás. I almost fear so.
Doña Ángela. And then his way of receiving the duchess, he who is always the pink of courtesy, a finished gentleman
Dr. Tomás. You are right. On that occasion I understood how it was with him. But who can be resigned when fate strikes so suddenly?
Doña Ángela. Adoring a child as he adores Inés, is there anybody who could act as he proposes to act to-day?
Dr. Tomás. Nobody, madam, nobody in his right mind.
Doña Ángela. Have you told Dr. Bermúdez?
Dr. Tomás. Not everything. That would be dangerous. But quite enough to enable him to pronounce an opinion.
Doña Ángela. And what is it?
Dr. Tomás. Am I to speak fully?
Doña Ángela. Yes, yes, doctor. Conceal nothing. I know there is no remedy.
Dr. Tomás. With skilful treatment, separated from everybody, especially from those whose presence could only serve to exasperate his nervous sensibility by very reason of his affection for them
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