"Pardon me!" said I, altogether flabbergasted by such a reception, "what is it all about? There's no, Bolés, you say?"
"No. So it is."
"And no Teresa either?"
"And no Teresa. I'm Teresa."
I didn't understand it at all. I fixed my eyes upon her, and tried to make out which of us was taking leave of his or her senses. But she went again to the table, searched about for something, came back to me, and said in an offended tone:
"If it was so hard for you to write to Bolés, look, there's your letter, take it! Others will write for me."
I looked. In her hand was my letter to Bolés. Phew!
"Listen, Teresa! What is the meaning of all this? Why must you get others to write for you when I have already written it, and you haven't sent it."
"Sent it where?"
"Why, to this—Bolés."