Doña Perfecta sank again on the sofa; but she shed no tears, and a convulsive tremor agitated her frame.
“So that for this infamous atheist,” she exclaimed, with frank rage, “there are no social conventionalities, there is nothing but caprice. This is base avarice. My daughter is rich!”
“If you think to wound me with that treacherous weapon, evading the question and giving a distorted meaning to my sentiments in order to offend my dignity, you are mistaken, dear aunt. Call me mercenary, if you choose. God knows what I am.”
“You have no dignity!”
“That is an opinion, like any other. The world may hold you to be infallible. I do not. I am far from believing that from your judgments there is no appeal to God.”
“But is what you say true? But do you persist in your purpose, after my refusal? You respect nothing, you are a monster, a bandit.”
“I am a man.”
“A wretch! Let us end this at once. I refuse to give my daughter to you; I refuse her to you!”
“I will take her then! I shall take only what is mine.”
“Leave my presence!” exclaimed Doña Perfecta, rising suddenly to her feet. “Coxcomb, do you suppose that my daughter thinks of you?”