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Updated: July 14, 2025
"Yes; the love you murdered.... Friends, nothing more; comrades united by complicity in a crime." And she laughed with cruel sarcasm, while the carriage turned into one of the avenues of Recoletos. Leonora looked vacantly out upon the central boulevard. The rows of iron benches were filled with people.
Once I followed him in the street with the intention of speaking to him, but my courage failed at the last moment. A number of months later, I met him one summer afternoon on the Recoletos, when he was in the company of a Frenchman named Cornuty.
Martinez Ruiz wrote me a long letter concerning the book by return mail; on the following day he sent another. Poveda handed me the letters to read and I was filled with surprise and joy. Some weeks later, returning from the National Library, Martinez Ruiz, whom I knew by sight, came up to me on the Recoletos. "Are you Baroja?" he asked. "Yes." "I am Martinez Ruiz."
For several days Manuel slept upon the benches of the Plaza de Oriente and on the chairs of La Castellana and Recoletos. It was getting toward the end of summer and he could still sleep in the open. A few centimos that he earned by carrying valises from the stations helped him to exist, though badly, until October.
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