Luiza took her part. She was very obliging, an excellent laundress, very honest—
“And she is walking the streets at eleven o’clock at night!” interrupted her friend. “If she were in my house—”
“I understood,” interposed the counsellor, “that she was afflicted with a fatal malady; is that the case, Senhor Zuzarte?”
“Yes, an aneurism,” replied Julião, without raising his eyes from the volume he was looking over.
“Another thing in favor of what I say,” exclaimed Donna Felicidade. “You ought to dismiss her at once. A servant with a thing like that, which may burst when she is bringing you a glass of water. God forbid!”
The counsellor coincided with her in this opinion, adding,—
“And such an event might even bring one into trouble with the authorities.”
Julião closed his copy of Dante and said,—
“I forgot to warn Jorge about it; but the day least expected that woman will drop dead before your eyes upon the floor.”
Luiza was disturbed; it seemed to her as if some new misfortune was threatening her. She said aloud, that it was so difficult to find servants.