I saw her in the Prado yesterday.
Her step was royal—queen-like—and her face
As beauteous as a saint’s in Paradise.
Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise,
And be no more a saint?
Don Carlos. Why do you ask?
Lara. Because ’tis whispered that this angel fell;
And though she is a virgin outwardly,
Within she is a sinner; like those panels
Or doors and altar-pieces, the old monks