“Yes.”
“And have you seen him again since that night?”
“Yes.”
“And you have written to him!”
“I have written to him also. Oh, señora! why do you look at me in that way? You are not my mother.
“Would to God that I were not! Rejoice in the harm you are doing me. You are killing me; you have given me my death-blow!” cried Doña Perfecta, with indescribable agitation. “You say that this man—”
“Is my husband—I will be his wife, protected by the law. You are not a woman! Why do you look at me in that way? You make me tremble. Mother, mother, do not condemn me!”
“You have already condemned yourself—that is enough. Obey me, and I will forgive you. Answer me—when did you receive letters from that man?”
“To-day.”
“What treachery! What infamy!” cried her mother, roaring rather than speaking. “Had you appointed a meeting?”