“We are going to put a blister on the back of her neck,” said Julião, coming out of the room.
Jorge devoured Dr. Caminha with his eyes as the latter, putting on his gloves, said,—
“We shall see the result of the blister. She is very ill now, and she may be worse. I will return, my friend; I will return.”
The blister was useless; she did not feel it; she lay pallid and motionless, with drawn features, and the nerves of the face twitching convulsively.
“There is no hope,” said Julião to Sebastião, in a low voice.
Donna Felicidade was seized with terror, and began to talk of the “rites of the church.”
“What for?” growled Julião, impatiently.
Donna Felicidade declared that she had scruples of conscience, that it was a mortal sin; and calling Jorge over to the window, she said to him in a trembling voice, “Don’t be frightened, Jorge; but it would be well to think of the rites of the church.”
“The rites of the church!” repeated Jorge in terror.
Julião interposed abruptly, in an accent of irritation: