“How do you feel?” he asked, putting his cane in a corner.
“Better,—much better; a little weak still.”
Jorge took a few steps up and down the room.
“And you?” she asked.
“So, so,” he answered, in so mournful a tone that she laid down the comb she was using, and going over to him, with her hair hanging loose around her, placed her hands caressingly on his shoulders.
“What is the matter?” she said. “There is something the matter with you. I find you so altered for some days past. You are not the same. At times you look as if you had committed some crime. What is the matter? Tell me!” And her glance sought his, which he turned away in confusion.
She embraced him, and urged him again to tell her what was the matter. She asked him to confide in his little wife.
He looked at her fixedly, and suddenly, as if he had just come to a decision,—
“Very well, then,” he said. “I will tell you. You are well now, and you can hear it. Luiza, for the past two weeks I have lived in a hell, and I can endure it no longer! You are well now, is it not so? Well, then, what is the meaning of this? Tell me the truth.” And he held Bazilio’s letter before her eyes.
“What—is it?” she articulated, pale as death, taking the letter in her hand.