..."
"It's the same with all of them," said one of the ragamuffins. "They
talk nonsense when they get sleepy. They all look as if they were
starved."
Manuel felt as garrulous as a mountebank. When he had wearied, he
leaned against a heap of stones and with arms crossed prepared to
sleep.
Shortly after this the group of curiosity-hunters had dispersed; only
a guard and an old gentleman were left, and they discussed the
ragamuffins in tones of pity.
The gentleman deplored the way these children were abandoned and said
that in other countries they built schools and asylums and a thousand
other things. The guard shook his head dubiously. At last he summed up
the conversation, saying in the tranquil manner of a Galician:
"Take my word for it: there's no good left in any of them."
Manuel, hearing this, began to tremble; he arose from his place on the
ground, left the Puerta del Sol and began to wander aimlessly about.
"There's no good left in any of them!" The remark had made a deep
impression upon him. Why wasn't he good? Why? He examined his life. He
wasn't bad, he had harmed nobody. He hated El Carnicerin because that
fellow had robbed him of happiness, had made it impossible for him to
go on living in the one corner where he had found some affection and
shelter. Then contradicting himself, he imagined that perhaps he was
bad after all, and in this case the most he could do was to reform and
become better.
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