As he sipped the wine he glanced up nervously at his window and
wondered whether his wife had already left home. Were he sure that she
had, he would leave his wine untouched and hasten to look after his
son and give him food. But until he knew Xantippe had gone he would not
move. The sobs of yesterday still disturbed him, and he was more than
once on the point of cancelling his resolves. But as the wine stirred
his blood he became satisfied with what he had done and said. The little
cafe at Benhur that was to make his fortune seemed nearly in his grasp.
Had he not, he asked himself, worked all day without a murmur? It was
right Xantippe should help him.
As he sat dreamily thinking over these things, and watching the shadows
turn to a darker purple under the oil-lamps, a woman spoke to him.
"Well, Gregorio, are you asleep?"
"No," said he, turning toward his questioner.
The woman laughed. She was a big woman, dressed in loose folds of red
and blue. Her hair was dishevelled, and ornamented with brass pins
fastened into it at random. Her sleeves were rolled up to her armpits,
and she had her arms akimbo--fat, flabby arms that shook as she laughed.
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