The opening of her dirty waist revealed a flat, blackish bosom. One of the gipsy youths glided over to her and seized her by the breast. She laid the infant to one side and stretched herself out on the floor....
Just before the dawn of one April day the cold was so terrible inside the Black House that they made a fire. The flames leaped high, and at the moment least expected the wattle roof blazed up. At once the fire spread. As the canes burned they burst with an explosion. Soon a vast flame had risen into the air.
The denizens escaped in terror. Manuel, Jesús and Don Alonso made their way quickly through the Paseo de los Pontones to the Ronda.
The blazing roof shone through the dark night like a gigantic torch. Soon, however, it was extinguished, and only sparks were left, leaping and flying through the air.
The three walked along the Ronda. Yonder they could see the long lines of gas lanterns, and at intervals, luminous points like shining islands dotting the obscurity. On the solitary Ronda could be heard, very rarely, the hastening footsteps of some passerby and the distant barking of the dogs.
It occurred to Manuel to go to La Blasa’s tavern. Instead of taking the Paseo Imperial, they entered Las Injurias through a lane lit up by oil lamps and skirting the Gas House.
Black and red smoke rose from the lofty chimneys. The round paunches of the tanks were down near the ground, and around them rose the girders, which, in the darkness, produced an eerie effect.
La Blasa’s tavern was not open. Shivering with the cold they proceeded along the Ronda. They passed a factory whose windows filled the gloom of the night with the violent brilliance of arc lights.
In the midst of this silence the factory seemed to roar, belching clouds of smoke through the chimney.
“There shouldn’t be any factories,” burst out Jesús with sudden indignation.