were running through the water, in the faint light of the zaguan lamp, running across the garden and putting ollas, and square gasoline cans under the arching spouts of water that seethed down from the roof, then darting away while they filled, then struggling in with the frothy vessel. It would save making trips to the lake, for water.
“What do you think of us?” Cipriano said to her.
“It is strange to me,” she replied, wondering and a little awed by the night.
“Good, no?” he said, in an exultant tone.
“A little scaring,” she replied, with a slight laugh.
“When you are used to it,” he said, “it seems natural, no? It seems natural so—as it is. And when you go to a country like England, where all is so safe and ready-made, then you miss it. You keep saying to yourself: ‘What am I