Allmers.
[Staggering backwards.] Asta! What is this you say!
Asta.
Read the letters. Then you will see—and understand. And perhaps have some forgiveness—for mother, too.
Allmers.
[Clutching at his forehead.] I cannot grasp this—I cannot realise the thought. You, Asta—you are not——
Asta.
You are not my brother, Alfred.
Allmers.
[Quickly, half defiantly, looking at her.] Well, but what difference does that really make in our relation? Practically none at all.