SARAH.
Sorrowfully.
You have heard nothing! I swear to you, you have heard nothing.
ANATHEMA.
But you yourself—
SARAH.
Imploringly.
Have I said anything? My God, women are so talkative, sir; and they love their children so dearly that they always consider them beautiful. Rosa—beautiful! (Laughs.) Just think of it, Purikes,—Rosa is beautiful!
She laughs. Rosa comes over from the direction of the city. Her hair is disheveled, almost covering her black, flashing eyes; her face is smeared with something black, and she is dressed wretchedly. She walks with a youthful and stately gait, but on noticing the strange man, she stoops like an old woman.
SARAH.