But already, even though Zureda had wanted to give him back, it was too late. Rafaela ran to the end of the platform, and there she had to stop. Pedro laughed and gesticulated from the blackness of the tender, bidding her farewell.
The young woman went back home, in tears. Manolo Berlanga had just got home. He had been drinking and was in the devil's own humor.
"Well, what's up now?" he demanded.
Inconsolable, sobbing, Rafaela told him what had happened.
"Is that all?" interrupted the silversmith. "Say, you're crazy! If he's gone, so much the better. Now he'll leave us in peace, a little while. Damn good thing if he never came back!"
Then he demanded supper.
"Come, now," he added, "cut out that sniveling! Give me something to eat. I'm in a hurry!"
Rafaela began to light the fire. But all the time she kept on crying and scolding. Her rage and grief dragged out into an interminable monologue:
"My darling—my baby—this is a great note! Think of that man taking him away, like that! The little angel will get his death o' cold. What a fool, what an idiot! And then they talk about the way women act! My precious! What'll I do, thinking about how cold he'll be, to-night? My baby, my heart's blood—my precious little sweetheart——!"
In her anger she tipped over the bottle of olive-oil. It fell off the stove and smashed on the floor. The rage of the woman became frenzied.