"What do we do?"
Señora Alcantara's face was impossible to draw. She was a pretty lady, and she had proudly flaunted that—wearing thick makeup and the finest dresses of the time. But that day, all of that façade had been torn down. She hadn't changed her clothes from the day before. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and snot and drool stained her face. She looked like a wounded, wet pup.
I could only imagine how terrible she felt.
At first, she had thought her daughter to be a terrible villain—someone who, out of pettiness, had lightly accused a man of a crime punishable by death.
Now, she must have felt like a terrible mother. Not only had she failed to keep her young daughter away from dishonor, but she had also disregarded the possibility that the girl might have had a reason to behave so outrageously. The false accusation of rape was far from justified… but, to some degree, understandable.
