One need only see the way in which she arranges the lacy frills of her gown in order to understand that she is a persnickety woman, fond of keeping everything around her and herself tidy. I note that she has just torn the lace trimming on her left cuff, but that is because she, being impatient by nature, blurted out, “Damn and blast the thing.” Those were her exact words, immediately followed by a “May God forgive me!” which took all the venom out of her. I don’t say that she stamped her foot, but she might have, since that is a gesture natural to certain ladies when annoyed. In any event, her anger lasted barely a minute. She then went to her sewing box to stitch up the torn lace, but decided to make do with a pin. The pin fell to the floor; she knelt down and picked it up. There were of course others in the box, many others, but she didn’t think it wise to leave pins lying on the floor. As she knelt, she caught sight of the tip of her slipper, on which there was a white mark; she sat down on the nearby chair, removed her slipper, and saw what it was: it had been chewed by a cockroach. Dona Benedita again fell into a rage, because the slipper was a very smart one, and had been given to her the year before by a dear friend. An angel, a real angel! Dona Benedita fixed her eyes on the white mark; happily their usual expression of simple charity was not so charitable as to allow itself to be entirely replaced by other, less passive expressions, and so it resumed its rightful place. Dona Benedita turned the slipper over and over, passing it from one hand to the other, lovingly at first, then mechanically, until her hands stopped moving completely, and the slipper fell into her lap, and Dona Benedita sat staring into space. At this point, the clock in the drawing room began to strike. After the first two chimes, Dona Benedita shuddered:

“Good Lord! It’s ten o’clock!”

And she quickly put her slipper back on, hurriedly pinned the cuff of her gown, and went to her writing desk to begin the letter. She had put the date and “My ungrateful husband,” and had barely written: “Did you think of me yesterday? I . . .” when Eulália knocked on her door, calling out:

“Mama! Mama! It’s time for breakfast.”

Dona Benedita opened the door, Eulália kissed her hand, then raised her own hands heavenward:

“Goodness gracious! What a sleepyhead!”

“Is breakfast ready?”

“Yes, it’s been ready for ages!”

“But I gave orders that breakfast today should be later than usual . . . I’ve been writing to your father.”