“Jorge!”
He went in again, and kneeling down by the bedside, approached his face to hers, saying,—
“What ails you? Come, let us say no more about it; it is past. Don’t get sick. I love you; I swear it to you. Let it be what it will, I don’t want to know it. I want to know nothing.”
Seeing she was about to speak, he laid his hand upon her mouth: “I want to hear nothing. I want you to be well—not to suffer. Say you are better. To-morrow we will go to the country and forget it all. It is all past now.”
“Jorge, Jorge,” she murmured, in a choking voice.
“Very well, yes; but now you are going to be happy again. Tell me what you feel?”
“Here!” she answered, raising her hands to her head. “It hurts me!”
Jorge rose to his feet in order to call Julião, but she detained him, and gazing eagerly at him, with feverish eyes, approached her face to his. He bent towards her and pressed on her lips a long, long kiss full of forgiveness.
“Oh, my poor head!” murmured Luiza.
Her temples throbbed violently, and a burning flush suffused her countenance. As she often suffered from headache, Julião did not regard her illness as very serious; he advised absolute repose, and ordered mustard plasters to the feet till he came again. Jorge remained at the bedside, his mind filled with melancholy presentiments; from time to time he sighed profoundly.