Sostra. You don’t perceive what harm

May come of this. He thinks himself a foundling.

Chrem. A foundling, say you?

Sostra. Yes indeed, he does.

Chrem. Confess it to be true.

Sostra. Ah, Heav’n forbid!

Let our most bitter enemies do that!

Shall I disown my son, my own dear child!

Chrem. What! do you fear you can not at your pleasure

Produce convincing proofs that he’s your own?