“Your tickets, Señor,” he cried, in short, imperious tones.
The traveler put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drew from it a piece of yellow cardboard.
“The other, the ticket of the lady. Eh, Señora, Señora, your ticket!”
Lucía was now partially awake, and throwing down the Scotch plaid she sat upright and began to rub her eyes with her knuckles, like a sleepy child. Her hair was disordered and flattened against the flushed cheek on which she had been lying, a loosened braid hung over one shoulder and, unbraided at the end, floated in three strands. Her crushed white petticoat rose rebellious under her cloth skirt, the string of one of her shoes had become untied and strayed over her instep. Lucía looked around her with wandering and uncertain gaze; she seemed serious and surprised.
“The ticket, Señora, the ticket!” the official continued to cry, in no very amiable tone of voice.
“The ticket?” she repeated. And she looked around again, unable to shake off completely the stupor of sleep.
“Yes, Señora, the ticket,” repeated the official, still less amiably than before.
“Miranda! Miranda!” cried Lucía at last, linking together her scattered recollections of the day before. And she looked anxiously on all sides, amazed at not seeing Miranda in the compartment.
“Señor de Miranda has my ticket,” she said, addressing the official, as if the latter must of necessity know who Miranda was.
The official, puzzled, turned toward the traveler, his right hand extended for the ticket.