If it hadn’t been for all the paint on her face, one could have seen Doña Victorina blush. She wanted to throw herself upon her enemy, but the sentry stopped her. In the meantime, the street was filling up with curious people.
“Listen! I lower myself talking with you. People of categoría ... Do you want my clothes to wash? I will pay you well. Do you think that I don’t know that you are a washerwoman?”
Doña Consolacion became furious. The reference to her being a washerwoman wounded her.
“Do you think that we do not know what you are? Get out! My husband has already told me. Señora, I, at least, have not belonged to more than one man, but you? One must be pretty hard up to take the leavings.”
This shot struck Doña Victorina square in the breast. She rolled up her sleeves, clenched her fists, and, gnashing her teeth, began:
“Come down here, you nasty old thing, that I may smash your filthy mouth.”
The Medusa disappeared quickly from the window, but was soon seen coming down the stairs on a run, swinging her husband’s whip.
Don Tiburcio interposed, pleading with them, but they would have come to blows if the alferez had not arrived.
“But, señoras!... Don Tiburcio!”
“Teach your woman better; buy her better clothes. If you haven’t the money, rob the people. You have your soldiers for that!” shouted Doña Victorina.