Doña Ángela. My poor child!
Don Lorenzo. You don't defend her against me? [Then gently.] Nevertheless, it is your duty.
Doña Ángela. Alas, Lorenzo, what strength has your wretched wife to use against you? Your will grows iron in strife and calamity; mine bends to the very dust.
Don Lorenzo. You are right. My will is irresistible when duty orders me. [To Dr. Tomás.] What do you think of all this?
Dr. Tomás. That it should be so.
Don Lorenzo. So it is. [Pause.] Poor Ángela! And do you know what we are going to do once the act is signed and the proof given up?
Dr. Tomás. You have a proof?
Don Lorenzo. You didn't know. [Aside, wondering.] (And they were talking about it when I entered!) Yes, I have it, irrefutable, past doubt, clear as daylight, although it is black as night and treason.
Doña Ángela. Keep calm, Lorenzo.
Dr. Tomás. Then what is it?
Don Lorenzo. A letter of my mother's—of the woman who called herself my mother.
Doña Ángela. [Aside.] Good Heavens! Can it be true?
Don Lorenzo. Her signature, her handwriting—it is here—in my power.
Dr. Tomás. [Aside.] Ah, if it were so.
Don Lorenzo. Then when the proof is delivered up, you, my poor Inés, and I will at once leave this house—this house which already has ceased to be ours, and which this very day the law will take into possession until it is
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