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Updated: June 20, 2025
He was lured to old Jovita's side by the fact that at the beginning of the walk Pepita kept near her, and no sooner had the old woman involved him in tiresome talk, from which he could not escape, than the small figure flitted away and ended the journey homeward under the wing of José, and accompanied by Manuel and a certain gay little Carlos, who joked and laughed like a child.
Young as she was, she had awakened quite grand passions in more than one heart, and on two or three occasions the suitors had been of far better fortune than herself one of them, indeed, being the only son of a rich farmer, who might have chosen a wife of much greater importance than this pretty, scornful child, and whose family rebelled bitterly against his folly, and at last sent him away to Seville, but not before Pepita herself had coolly trodden him under her small feet.
Once or twice she met him, and because she was such a pretty little one, he spoke kindly to her and praised her eyes and her dancing. He did not know she was in love with him." Pepita laughed again. "Why do you do that?" Manuel asked. "He knew," said Pepita.
When Pepita, amid the cares of domesticity, wearied a little of her husband's oft-repeated tales of life at the front, he had only to repair to the Piazza where, in the perches among the Statuary, he never failed to find plenty of cronies eager to pay him fascinated attention.
"He could not help it that she was in love with him," he said. "And she could not help it." "Why?" inquired Pepita for the third time, and with a prettier coolness than before. "Why," stammered Manuel, "because because that is the way with all of them."
They were sitting in the shade refreshing themselves with wine, and he came toward them, not at first seeing them. Pepita clutched her fan until she broke it, and a wild exultation sprang in her breast. She had seen before she left home that she had never before been so pretty. There had come into her face a new look a fire that had burned deeper every charm.
White, white is the jasmine flower, Sweet, sweet is the heart of the rose, Sweet my mouth's blossom " She stopped short and dropped her arms. "See," she said, "let him want what he will, let him come a thousand times, and I will never speak to him." In the gardens the next Sunday they met him. Pepita was talking to a young girl whose name was Isabella, and whose brother.
In K. Lall Dey's "Indigenous Drugs of India," it is called Papeeta, which is pronounced Pepita in English; and Pepita is the Spanish word for the kernel of a fruit. It is also held in high estimation as an antidote for the bite of serpents. It should not be taken into the mouth, for should the spittle be swallowed, and vomiting not ensue, death would be inevitable.
Somehow, handsome as they were, they must use their eyes on their lovers, they must laugh and dance and talk to be adored, while she need do nothing but be Pepita. When, late that evening, she sat with José under the vines, the air about them heavy with jasmine and orange and lemon blossoms, she asked a great many questions about the bull-fight.
"What is the matter?" said the old woman. "You walk as if you had a devil in you. Your breath is all gone. Are you mad?" At night, when they sat together, Pepita spoke of the next bull-fight. José must take her. She wished to go. "It is better that we should not go there," said José. "You know why. He will not like to see you. You saw how it was to-day.
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