Tearfully.
What a wicked man you are, Ivan. I gave you credit for ten copecks, and you are forever slandering us.
BEZKRAINY.
Don't pay any attention to me, Sarah,—I am wicked because I am hungry. You, sir, in that black coat, go away: Sarah is an honest woman and she will not sell her daughter to you, even if you offered her a million.
SARAH.
Hotly.
That's right, Ivan, thank you. But who told you, sir, that our Rosa is beautiful? It is not true—don't laugh, it isn't true, she is as ugly as deadly sin. She is as filthy as a dog that has just crawled out of the coal-hole of a ship; her face is furrowed by smallpox and it looks like a field where people dig lime and sand; there is on her right eye a cataract as large as on an old horse. Look at her hair—it is like faded wool, half torn away by birds; and when she walks, she stoops,—I swear to you, she stoops when she walks! If you take her, everybody will laugh at you, everybody will spit at you, the street urchins will give you no rest....
ANATHEMA.
Surprised.
But, madam Leizer, I have heard—