Torr. You crying, when two teeth are out—
Mari. ‘As swelling prologues of’—Help! murder! murder!
Enter Eugenia, Clara, Alonso, Brigida, etc.
Alon. What is the matter now?
Mari. Don Torribio, sir, because I wouldn’t let him have my young lady’s letter, has laid violent hands on me.
Torr. I?
All. Don Torribio!
Torr. I tell you—
Alon. Indeed, nephew, your choleric jealousy carries you too far. A respectable female in my house!
Torr. I tell you that it is me who—