Justa's words were always freighted with a double meaning and were,
at times, burning allusions. Her mischievous manner, her flaunting,
unbridled coquetry, scattered about her an atmosphere of lust.
Manuel felt a painful eagerness to possess her, mingled with a great
sadness and even hatred, when he saw that Justa was making sport of
him. Many a time when he saw her come Manuel vowed to himself not to
speak a word to her, not to look at her or say anything; then she
would hunt him out and tease him by beckoning to him and touching
his foot.
Justa's temper was disconcertingly uneven. Sometimes when Manuel
clasped her about the waist and sat her down on his knees, she would
let him squeeze her and kiss her all he pleased; at others, however,
simply because he had drawn near and taken her by the hand, she
would give him such a hard slap that his senses whirled.
"And come back for more," she would add, seemingly indignant.
Manuel would feel like crying with anger and rage, and would have to
contain himself lest he blurt out, with childish logic: "Why did you
let me kiss you the other afternoon?" But at once he saw how
ridiculous such a question would seem.
Justa got to feel a certain liking for Manuel, but it was a
sisterly, a friendly affection; he never appealed to her seriously
as a sweetheart or a suitor.
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