She looked at her daughter for a few moments, as if about to say something serious, or at least difficult, such was the grave, indecisive look in her eyes. But, in the end, she said nothing, and her daughter, announcing again that breakfast was served, took her by the arm and led her away.

Let us leave them to eat breakfast at leisure, and take the weight off our feet here in the drawing room, without, however, feeling the need to catalogue every item of its furniture, just as we have failed to do in any other room of the house. Not that the furniture is ugly or in bad taste; on the contrary, it is all rather good. But the overall impression is rather strange, as if the choice of furnishings were the result of some subsequently abandoned plan, or a succession of abandoned plans. Mother, daughter, and son breakfasted together. Let us leave aside the son, who is of no interest to us; a young whippersnapper of twelve years old, but so sickly that he looks more like eight. Eulália is the one who interests us, not only because of what we glimpsed in the preceding chapter, but also because, when her mother began to talk about Dona Maria dos Anjos and Leandrinho, she became very serious and, perhaps, a little sullen. Dona Benedita realized that her daughter did not like this topic of conversation and so she retreated, like someone turning a corner to avoid an undesirable encounter. She rose from the table, and her daughter followed her into the drawing room.

It was a quarter past eleven. Dona Benedita spoke with her daughter until shortly after midday, so as to have time to digest her breakfast and write the letter. As you are aware, the mail pouch closes at two o’clock. And so, a few minutes after midday, Dona Benedita told her daughter to go and practice the piano, so that she could finish the letter. Dona Benedita left the drawing room; Eulália went over to the window, glanced out at the square outside, and I can vouch for the fact that she did so with a glimmer of sadness in her eyes. It was not, however, a weak and indecisive sadness; it was the sadness of a resolute young woman who anticipates the pain her actions will cause to others, but, nevertheless, swears to go through with them, and does go through with them. I accept that not all these details could be surmised merely from Eulália’s eyes, but it is for this very reason that stories are told by someone who takes it upon themselves to fill in the gaps and reveal what is hidden. True, it was certainly a vigorous sadness and equally true that a glimmer of hope would soon appear in her eyes.

“This can’t go on,” she murmured, coming back into the room.