At her side Paloma, huddled on the floor near Valencia, held a tot of
three or four in her arms,--a pale, delicate creature who blinked
incessantly,--to whom she was giving whisky from a glass.
A gaunt, weak fellow wearing a small cap with a gilded number and a
blue smock, passed moodily up and down before the counter; his arms
hung beside his body as if they did not belong to him, and his legs
were bent. Whenever it occurred to him, he took a sip from his glass;
he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and would resume his
languid pacing to and fro. He was the brother of the woman who owned
the tavern.
Leandro and Manuel took a seat at the same table where the gamblers
were playing. Leandro ordered wine, emptied a deep glass at a single
gulp and heaved a few sighs.
"Christ!" muttered Leandro half under his breath. "Never let yourself
go wild over a woman. The best of them is as poisonous as a toad."
Then he seemed to calm down. He gazed at the drawings scratched on the
top of the table: there were hearts pierced by arrows, the names of
women; he drew a knife from his pocket and began to cut letters into
the wood.
When he wearied of this he invited one of the gamblers to drink with
him.
"Thanks, friend," replied the gambler. "I'm playing."
"All right, leave the game. If you don't want to, nobody'll force you.
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