"Would not her experience have been the same as mine? She would not have suspected, would not have dreamed what forces she was setting in motion, what passions she was playing with. And thus she was in fact guilty of everything, although innocent. Would this not be too rigorous toward her! If I were to do anything here, I would prefer to quarrel, become angry—but this silent, objective denunciation! No! No! No! I could not, I cannot, I will not, I will not do it for anything. No! No! No! I could despair over these written symbols, standing there alongside each other cold and like idle street-loafers, and the one "no" says no more than the next. You should hear how my passion inflects them. Would that I stood beside you, that I could tear myself from you with the last "no" as Don Giovanni did from the Commandatore, whose hand was no colder than the good sense with which you irresistibly sweep me off my feet. And yet, if I stood face to face with you, I would hardly say more than one "no," because before I got any further you no doubt would interrupt me with the cold response: Yes, yes. What I did was very mediocre and clumsy. Go ahead and laugh at me."