Dona Benedita’s spirits rose somewhat that evening after dinner. She talked a little more, discussed a plan to go for a stroll in the Jardim Botânico, even proposing that they go the very next day. However, Eulália warned her that it would be wise to wait a day or two for the effects of the migraine to wear off completely; and the look she got from her mother in return for her advice was as sharp as a dagger. The daughter had no fear of her mother’s eyes, though. As she brushed her hair that night, thinking over the day’s events, Eulália repeated to herself the words we heard her say, some days before, at the window.

“This can’t go on.”

And before sleeping, she smugly pulled open a certain drawer, took out a little box, opened it, and removed a card measuring only about two inches by two—a portrait. It was clearly not the portrait of a woman, not only on account of the mustache, but also the uniform; he was, at the very least, a naval officer. Whether handsome or ugly is a matter of opinion. Eulália thought him handsome, the proof being that she kissed the portrait, not once but three times. Then she gazed at it longingly, and put it back in its box.