“Not all; for I have always been an honest woman,” the keeper of the tobacco-shop protested.
“And I,” added the coal-vender. “No one has anything to say against me.”
“I speak of high society, of ladies, of those who wear silks; it is a class that has gone to perdition. I know very well what I am speaking about;” and he added, with an air of gravity, “There is more morality among the people; the people are a different race.”
And with his hands buried in his pockets, and his legs wide apart, he remained lost in thought, his head bent down, his gaze fixed on the ground.
Sebastião, who had remained nearly a fortnight at his villa in Almada, was terrified when, on his return, Aunt Joanna told him that Luiza left her house every day at two o’clock, and that the cousin had not returned there. Gertrudes had told her of it, and the neighbors talked of nothing else.
“Then a poor lady cannot even go to the shops to buy what she wants,” exclaimed Sebastião. “Gertrudes is a shameless creature; and I don’t know, Aunt Joanna, how you can consent that she should put her foot in this house, with her vile slanders.”
“No, you are unjust,” Joanna answered, angry in her turn. “The poor woman only repeats what she hears in the street. She defended her,—she defended her with obstinacy. But the neighbors say it, and every one repeats it, and if they say it—”
Sebastião, recovering his serenity, replied,—
“But who are those who say it, Aunt Joanna?”
“Who are they? Every one in the neighborhood says it; every one in the neighborhood,—every one in the neighborhood,” she repeated with emphasis.