The only thing that she
knew about the poet was that he had died. Of this she was almost sure,
and she imagined that in life, he was a great friend of Julio's because
she had so often heard her son repeat his name.
Ay, her son! . . . All her thoughts, her conjectures, her desires,
converged on him and her strong-willed husband. She longed for the men
to come to an understanding and put an end to a struggle in which she
was the principal victim. Would not God work this miracle? . . . Like
an invalid who goes from one sanitarium to another in pursuit of health,
she gave up the church on her street to attend the Spanish chapel on the
avenue Friedland. Here she considered herself even more among her own.
In the midst of the fine and elegant South American ladies who looked
as if they had just escaped from a fashion sheet, her eyes sought other
women, not so well dressed, fat, with theatrical ermine and antique
jewelry. When these high-born dames met each other in the vestibule,
they spoke with heavy voices and expressive gestures, emphasizing their
words energetically. The daughter of the ranch ventured to salute them
because she had subscribed to all their pet charities, and upon
seeing her greeting returned, she felt a satisfaction which made her
momentarily forget her woes. They belonged to those families which her
father had so greatly admired without knowing why.
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