“Yes,” answered the nurse.
Without knowing why, Manuel suddenly lost all enthusiasm for the dance, and even imagined that behind the coat of paint and the rice powder that covered the dancer’s face, lay a mass of rash and pimples.
Manuel and his cousin left the theatre. Vidal boarded at a house on the Calle del Olmo.
They walked off through the Calle de Atocha and at the corner of the Calle de la Magdalena they encountered La Chata and La Rabanitos, who recognized them and called to them.
The two girls were waiting for La Engracia, who had gone off with a man. In the meantime they were quarreling. La Rabanitos was swearing the most solemn oaths that she was no more than sixteen years old; La Chata asserted that she was going on eighteen.
“Why, I heard your own mother say so!” she shouted.
“But why should my mother say any such thing? You sow!” retorted La Rabanitos.
“But she did say so, you cheap bitch!”
“When did I go into the business? Three years ago. And how old was I then? Thirteen.”
“Bah! You were on the streets ten years ago,” interrupted Vidal.