The furnishings of the room consisted of a table, a trunk,
a white shelf containing plates and earthenware pots, and a pine
wall-bracket that supported an oil-lamp.
Dolores was a woman of about fifty; she wore black clothes, a red
kerchief knotted around her forehead like a bandage and another of
some indistinct colour over her head.
Manuel called to El Bizco and, when the cross-eyed fellow awoke, asked
after Vidal.
"He'll be here right away," said El Bizco, and then, turning upon the
old lady, he growled: "Hey, you, fetch my boots."
Dolores was slow in executing his orders, whereupon El Bizco, wishing
to show off his domination over the woman, struck her.
The woman did not even mumble; Manuel looked coldly at El Bizco, in
disgust; the other averted his gaze.
"Want a bite?" asked El Bizco of Manuel when he had got out of bed.
"If you have anything good...."
Dolores drew from the fire a pan filled with meat and potatoes.
"You take good care of yourselves," murmured Manuel, whom hunger had
made profoundly cynical.
"They trust us at the butcher's," said Dolores, to explain the
abundance of meat.
"If you and I didn't work hard hereabouts," interjected El Bizco,
"much we'd be eating."
The woman smiled modestly. They finished their lunch and Dolores
produced a bottle of wine.
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