“I have, too,” muttered Manuel boastfully. “Five duros to blow and you’re no use to me at all.”
“Neither are you to me.”
“Listen here,” blurted Manuel. Seizing the girl by the arm he gave her a rude shove.
“Hey, you. Quit that, asaúra!” she cried.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“You’re nobody, you ain’t. And keep your hands where they belong, d’ye hear?”
“If you’re willing, I’ll treat you to coffee,” and Manuel jingled the money in his pocket.
The girl hesitated, then gave the newspapers that she held in her hand to an old woman. She tied her kerchief about her neck and went off with Manuel to a bun shop on the Calle de Jacometrezo. A cinnamon-hued puppy ran after them.
“Is that your dog?”