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The Orphan begged at the stores on the road and was given two slices of bread and a small coin. "Will you have some, ninchi?" he asked, offering Manuel one of the slices. "Hand it over." By the Ronda de Atocha they reached the Estacion de Mediodia. "Do you know the time?" asked the Orphan. "Yes. It's eleven." "Well then, it's too early to go to the barracks."
The train rolled on between long lines of coaches, the round-tables trembled with an iron rumble, and the Estacion del Mediodia, illuminated by arc lamps, came into view. The travellers got out; Manuel descended with his little bundle of clothes in his hand, looked in every direction for a glimpse of his mother and could not make her out anywhere on the wide platform.
Petra went up Carretas Street, continued through Atocha, entered the Estacion del Mediodia and sat down on a bench to wait for Manuel.... Meanwhile, the boy was approaching the city half asleep, half asphyxiated, in a third-class compartment. He had taken the train the night before at the railway station where his uncle was superintendent.
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