Mother. Alas! I was too indulgent; I am always too indulgent.

Clara. When Egmont rode by, and I ran to the window, did you chide me
then? Did you not come to the window yourself? When he looked up,
smiled, nodded, and greeted me, was it displeasing to you? Did you not
feel yourself honoured in your daughter?

Mother. Go on with your reproaches.

Clara (with emotion). Then, when he passed more frequently, and we felt
sure that it was on my account that he came this way, did you not remark
it yourself with secret joy? Did you call me away when I stood behind the
window-pane and awaited him?

Mother. Could I imagine that it would go so far?

Clara (with faltering voice, and repressed tears). And then, one evening,
when, enveloped in his mantle, he surprised us as we sat at our lamp, who
busied herself in receiving him, while I remained, lost in astonishment, as
if fastened to my chair?

Mother. Could I imagine that the prudent Clara would so soon be carried
away by this unhappy love? I must now endure that my daughter--

Clara (bursting into tears). Mother! How can you? You take pleasure in
tormenting me!

Mother (weeping). Ay, weep away! Make me yet more wretched by thy
grief. Is it not misery enough that my only daughter is a castaway?