Don. Louisa.
Couldst thou not discover
One so dear to thee?
Don. Clara.
Canst thou be a lover,
And thus fly from me? [Both unveil.]
Don Ferd. How's this? My sister! Clara, too—I'm confounded.
Don. Louisa. 'Tis even so, good brother.
Paul. How! what impiety? did the man want to marry his own sister?
Don. Louisa. And ar'n't you ashamed of yourself not to know your own sister?
Don. Clara. To drive away your own mistress——
Don. Louisa. Don't you see how jealousy blinds people?
Don. Clara. Ay, and will you ever be jealous again?
Don Ferd. Never—never!—You, sister, I know will forgive me—but how, Clara, shall I presume——