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"I think you're making it worse than it really is," she answered. "Old age is still a long way off; and, besides, very likely we'll have children to help us." Zureda's gesture was a negation. "That don't matter," he replied. "Children may not come at all; and even if they do, what of that? As for old age being far off, you're wrong.
He preferred her, usually, on quiet days, when the sun was giving the earth a big, warm kiss. Zureda's fireman was a chap named Pedro; an Andalusian, full of spicy songs and tales. Amadeo rather liked to hear these, always keeping his eyes fixed on blue distances that seemed to smile at him. Out ahead, over the boiler, the rails stretched on and on, shining like silver in the sun.
This cask held a certain musty light wine, which so Berlanga said, after coffee and one of Zureda's cigars had made him expansive had been given him by a "lady friend" of his who ran a tavern.
All the hate that, long ago, had flung him upon Berlanga, now had burst forth again in a fresh, strong, overwhelming torrent. Suddenly Manolo stepped up to his father and seized him by the lapel. "You going to shut up?" he snarled, in rage. "Or are you bound to drive me to it?" Zureda's answer was a smash in the face.
But, anyhow, they cut five years off my time. So there are only six years more between us." Regularly the letters came and went between Rafaela and the prisoner at Ceuta. Two years more drew to their close. But evil fortune had not yet grown weary of stamping its heel on Amadeo Zureda's honest shoulders.
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