“Let the boy come along with me this very minute.”
Peñalar brushed the sleeves of his black frock coat, combed his hair back, and taking Manuel by the hand, said to him in a truly evangelical voice:
“Come, my child.”
Don Sergio Redondo had a flour shop on the Plaza del Progreso.
They reached the square and walked into the shop.
“Don Sergio Redondo?” asked Peñalar of an old man in a flat, woolen cap.
“He hasn’t come down to the office yet.”
“I’ll wait. Tell him that there’s a gentleman here who would like to see him.”
“Very well. And who shall I say is waiting for him?”