attractions marred by child-bearing; her features sharpened by vicissitude; her hands, the innocent pride of her girlhood, deformed by cooking and washing; she felt two tears burn her eyeballs and, unable to gain in a contest of graces and attractions, her face fell upon the table, supported by her arms, in silent grief for her lost youth and her perished beauty.
At two o’clock in the morning there was a knocking at the gate and then at her door. It was they, Clothilde and Julio.
“Carmen, the Señora Granada.”
They embraced, without speaking; Clothilde, because gratitude sealed her lips; Carmen, because she could not.
The supper was disagreeable; the dishes were cold, the servant sleepy, those at the table watching one another.
When, in the silence of the night and of the sleeping house, Julio realized the magnitude of what he had done, he read, yes, he read in the darkness of the room, the fatal and human biblical sentence, and began to understand its meaning: