Don Lorenzo. My mother dying—and yonder that other morsel of my soul! What can I do, my God? [Walks slowly toward door R. and meets Doña Ángela.]
Doña Ángela. Where are you going, Lorenzo?
Don Lorenzo. To see my daughter.
Doña Ángela. Impossible. She has recovered consciousness now, and your presence might again upset her, since you it was who caused her illness.
Don Lorenzo. But I wish to see her.
Doña Ángela. You cannot. With you duty is always imperative, so you will respect that unhappy girl's grieving solitude [ironically], not upon the command of my will, which must always be second to yours, but upon that of your own reflective judgment.
Don Lorenzo. You are right. [Pause. Both are in middle of stage.] My own beloved daughter! What does she say of me?
Doña Ángela. Nothing.
Don Lorenzo. She does not blame me?
Doña Ángela. I cannot answer for the murmurings of sorrow in her heart.