Here and there a lone patch of
green grove splotched against the yellow field, which lay parched by
the sun beneath a pallid sky, whitish and murky in the hot vapours
rising from the earth. Not a cry, not the slightest sound rent the
air.
At dusk the mist grew transparent and the horizon receded until, far
in the distance, loomed the vague silhouettes of mountains not to be
glimpsed by day, against the red background of the twilight.
When they left off working in the shop it was usually night. Senor
Ignacio, Leandro, Manuel and Vidal would turn down the road toward
home.
The gas lights shone at intervals in the dusty air; lines of carts
rumbled slowly by, and across the road, in little groups, tramped the
workmen from the neighbouring factories.
And always, coming and going, the conversation between Manuel and
Vidal would turn upon the same topics: women and money.
Neither had a romantic notion, or anything like it, of women. To
Manuel, a woman was a magnificent animal with firm flesh and swelling
breast.
Vidal did not share this sexual enthusiasm; he experienced, with all
women, a confused feeling of scorn, curiosity and preoccupation.
As far as concerned money, they were both agreed that it was the
choicest, most admirable of all things; they spoke of money--
especially Vidal--with a fierce enthusiasm.
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