Sec.
Girl, you don’t love him, you’ve got your word back.
Clara (dully, drawing herself up again).
And yet I must go to him; I must go down on my knees to him and stutter: “Look at my father’s white hairs; take me!”
Sec.
Unhappy one, do I understand?
Clara.
Yes!
Sec.
That’s too much for any man. To have to lower one’s eyes before him—a fellow that’s only fit to be spat on. (Pressing Clara to him.) You poor, poor child!