Lara. By none?
O then indeed you are much wrong’d.
Pre. How mean you?
Lara. Nay, nay; I will not wound your gentle soul
By the report of idle tales.
Pre. Speak out!
What are these idle tales? You need not spare me.
Lara. I will deal frankly with you. Pardon me;
This window, as I think, looks towards the street,
And this into the Prado, does it not?