Countess. According to our religion, a man must have only one wife.
Zaida. That troubled me again. But the dispenser of your religion, who binds and unbinds, does for sequins or services what our Prophet does purely through kindness.
Countess. We can love but one.
Zaida. We indeed can love only one: but men have large hearts.
Countess. Unhappy girl!
Zaida. The very happiest in the world.
Countess. Ah! inexperienced creature!
Zaida. The happier for that perhaps.
Countess. But the sin!
Zaida. Where sin is, there must be sorrow: and I, my sweet sister, feel none whatever. Even when tears fall from my eyes, they fall only to cool my breast: I would not have one the fewer: they all are for him: whatever he does, whatever he causes, is dear to me.