“May they pluck my wings, as the gipsies say, if I’m not telling the truth. You know, María, that I’m like a box of mixed candy that has neither cover nor flap.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then I say you’re a St. Thomas in skirts.”
María was gradually calming down and speaking more pleasantly, as she prepared to leave for the theatre, when a man, tall, thin, with a black beard, kangaroo arms, and ferocious-looking hands, came up to Quentin. After making some mysterious grimaces, and winking his eyes, he whispered something in Quentin’s ear.
“What did that man say to you?” asked María.
“That man is a hardware dealer and a Freemason; he told me that I must go to the Patrician Lodge tonight.”
“There you go again with your humbugs. I’ve lost all patience with you. So he’s a Fleemason, eh? Do you think I’m a fool?”
“Hey!” called Quentin to the hardware dealer, who had already reached the door.
“What is it?” asked the Mason.
“Will you kindly tell this woman what you wanted of me?”