"It is a mistake for a wife to lay up pretty things,
since they are merely temptations to other women."
Alaire tried to reason her out of this mood. "Why should any one
molest us? Who could wish us harm?" she asked.
"Ha! Did you see that general? He was like a drunken man in your
presence; it was as if he had laid eyes upon the shining Madonna.
I could hear his heart beating."
"Nonsense! In the first place, I am an old married woman."
Dolores sniffed. "Vaya! Old, indeed! What does he care for a
husband? He only cares that you have long, bright hair, redder
than rust, and eyes like blue flowers, and a skin like milk. An
angel could not be so beautiful."
"Ah, Dolores, you flatterer! Seriously, though, don't you realize
that we are Americans, and people of position? An injury to us
would bring terrible consequences upon General Longorio's head.
That is why he sent his soldiers with us."
"All the same," Dolores maintained stubbornly, "I wish I had
brought that shawl and that silver coffee-pot with me."
The homeward journey was a repetition of the journey out; there
were the same idle crowds, the same displays of filthy viands at
the stopping-places, the same heat and dust and delays.
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