Paolo. Listen, just a moment.
Mario. I don't like to.
Paolo. She does nothing but speak of me, of our brotherly youth. She also speaks of you. She says—
Mario. No, I beg of you. It is useless. I know what kind of a woman my sister-in-law is and I do not need proofs of her virtue. Why do you bother with those poor letters? Is it so painful that you have found them?
Paolo. Painful? It is painful that I am not able to weep for a false relative who wished to rob—
Mario. Let him alone. He is dead and he has not robbed you of anything. If he had lived he would not have robbed you of anything, the same. Anna knew how—
Paolo. And this? And this? You count as little? Is this painful? I never had the shadow of a doubt about Anna, but—nor has the thought even passed through my mind—but it is different not to have doubted and not to have thought, than to possess the palpable proof of her faith and love. "I love my husband." It is the refrain of all her letters.
Mario. Was it necessary that she tell you this?
Paolo. She did not tell it to me, she told it to him. She told it to him—do you understand? Luciano had all the qualities which attract a woman. He was younger, better looking than I, well spoken, full of fire and courage.
Mario. How it pleases you, eh? To praise him now!