“Why has he locked you in?” I asked.
“The question! Because he is a brute, of course. He always does it when he goes out. Is it not horrible?”
“It only shows how fond he is of you,” I returned.
“Are you so atrocious as to defend him? And I thought you had a heart—so handsome, too! When I saw you I said, Ah, had I married this man, what a happy life!”
“Thank you for your good opinion,” I said. “I am very sorry you are locked in, because it prevents me from seeing your pretty face.”
“Oh, you think it pretty? Then you must let me out. I have put up my hair now, and look prettier than when you saw me.”
“You look prettier with it down,” I answered.
“Ah, down it goes again then!” she exclaimed.—“Yes, you are right, it does look best that way. Is it not like silk? You shall feel it when you liberate me.”
“That I cannot do, Cleta mine. Your Antonio has taken away the key.”
“Oh, cruel man! He left me no water, and I am perishing with thirst. What shall I do? Look, I will put my hand under the door for you to feel how hot it is; I am consumed with fever and thirst in this oven.”