LUCILE: Where are you going?
CLÉONTE: Where I told you.
COVIELLE: We are going to die.
LUCILE: You are going to die, Cléonte?
CLÉONTE: Yes, cruel one, since you wish it.
LUCILE: Me! I wish you to die?
CLÉONTE: Yes, you wish it.
LUCILE: Who told you that?
CLÉONTE: Is it not wishing it when you don't wish to clear up my suspicions?
LUCILE: Is it my fault? And, if you had wished to listen to me, would I not have told you that the incident you complain of was caused this morning by the presence of an old aunt who insists that the mere approach of a man dishonors a woman -- an aunt who constantly delivers sermons to us on this text, and tells us that all men are like devils we must flee?