“Write ‘without fixed residence,’” suggested the other clerk.
They then registered Manuel, whereupon he and the older man returned to their benches without a word, deeply speculative upon the fate that awaited them.
Officials of the department strolled around the room, chatting; now and then would be heard the tinkling of a bell.
Soon the door opened and a young woman came in with a mantilla over her shoulders. Her eyes were filled with great agitation.
She went over to the two clerks.
“Can you send somebody over ... to my house.... A physician ...? My mother just fell and broke her head.”
The clerk blew out a puff from his cigar and made no reply. Then, turning about so as to face the woman, and staring at her from crown to toe, he answered with an epical coarseness and bestiality:
“That belongs to the Emergency Hospital. We’ve got nothing to do with such cases.” He turned away and continued to smoke. The woman’s eyes roved in fright through the room; she finally decided to leave, mumbled good night in a breathless voice to which nobody replied, and disappeared.
“The ink-spilling pettifoggers! The beasts!” muttered Don Alonso in a low voice. “How much would it have cost them to send some guard to accompany that woman to the Emergency Hospital!”