And she went on to say that her room was worse than a pigsty, and that she could not remain in it any longer; the heat, the insects, the want of air, and in winter the dampness, were killing her; in short, she wanted to change her room for the one downstairs in which the trunks were kept.
This room had a window looking out on the street; it was high and spacious. In it were kept Jorge’s drawings, his portmanteaus, his old coats, and the venerable trunks, red, with a yellow border, of his grandfather’s time.
“I should be in heaven then, Senhora,” she ended.
But where were the trunks to be put? Luiza asked.
“Upstairs in my room;” and she added with a little smile, “Trunks are not people; they cannot feel.”
Luiza answered, a little confused,—
“Very well, I will see; I will speak to your master about it.”
“I rely upon the senhora.”
But when Luiza told Jorge that afternoon of “that poor creature’s ambition,” he gave a jump.
“What! to move the trunks? Is she crazy?” he said.