Juan de Dios spoke pleasantly; Quentin could see that he was dominated by his wife, because every minute or two he glanced at her as if begging her approval of what he was saying. She encouraged him with a gesture, with a look, and he continued. He spoke of the situation into which the Republicans had led Spain, of the factious parties that were organizing on the frontier....
Quentin did not listen to him, as he was thinking about Remedios; that little wilful child, so big-hearted, who despised her suitors. In the midst of their chat, he asked Rafaela:
“Where is Remedios now?”
“On one of our farms, near Montoro.”
“I’m going to write to her.”
“Yes, do,” said Rafaela; “you don’t know how happy she would be. She attaches great importance to those matters. She thinks of you very often. She has read every one of the speeches you made in the Cortes.”
“Really?” asked Quentin with a laugh.
“Yes, really,” replied Juan de Dios.
“What address shall I put on the letter?”
“Just Maillo Farm, Montoro.”