She flushed crimson, threw down the broom, and went to embrace him.
“I had nothing to do; I took a fancy to sweep,” she responded. “I was tired of doing nothing; besides, that is good for me; it is a healthy exercise.”
Jorge told Sebastião that evening of Luiza’s stupid notion of setting to work to sweep.
“A person as weak as you are, Senhora!” said Sebastião, reproachfully.
But no, she returned; she was not ill now,—at least, she was a great deal better.
She asked Sebastião to play Mozart’s “Requiem;” it was so beautiful. When she died she would like to have that sung in the church.
Jorge grew angry. “What a fancy for talking nonsense!” he cried.
“But is it not possible for me to die?”
“Very well, then; die, and leave us in peace,” he answered furiously.
“What an amiable husband!” she said, glancing with a smile at Sebastião.