In the sky, which was becoming serene, floated a few dark clouds with
silver linings, resembling mountains capped with snow; blown by the
wind, they scurried along with outspread wings; the bright sun
illumined the fields with its golden rays; resplendent in the clouds,
it reddened them like live coals; a few cloudlets scudded through
space, white flakes of foam. The hillocks and dales of the Madrilenian
suburbs were not yet mottled with green grass; the trees of the Campo
del Moro stood out reddish, skeleton-like, amidst the foliage of the
evergreens; dark rolls of vapour rose along the ground, soon to be
swept away by the wind. As the clouds passed by overhead, the plain
changed hue; successively it graded from purple into leaden-grey,
yellow, copper; the Extremadura cart-road, with the rows of grey,
dirty houses on each side, traced a broken line. This severe,
melancholy landscape of the Madrilenian suburbs, with their bleak,
cold gloominess, penetrated into Manuel's soul.
He left the Viaduct balcony, sauntered through several narrow lanes,
until he reached Toledo Street, walked down the Ronda and turned in
toward his house. He was getting near the Paseo de las Acacias when he
overheard two old women talking about a crime that had just been
committed at the corner of Amparo Street.
"And just as they were about to catch him, he killed himself," one of
them was saying.
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