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It was the secret voice of temptation, a voice which had transformed itself to radiance. One night, as he was recovering from one of these long, deep fits of abstraction, before the jeweler's window, he saw that Alicia Pardo and her friend Candelas were really drawing near. They, too, had seen him. Upset, almost speechless, the student saluted them.
The free-and-easy grace of her manner, the childish shortness of her waist, the robust fullness of her hips and breast, and the uneasiness with which her impatient, dancing little feet tapped the floor as if they wanted to run away, strongly contrasted with the ugliness of the room the bare, half-furnished room heavy with the odors of death. Candelas seemed truly moved.
Alicia looked at her watch. It was just six. Without upsetting the program for the evening, she could still afford the luxury of a little condescension. She ordered the coachman: "Number X, Calle Ballesta. Hurry!" For a moment the two young women remained silent. Suddenly Candelas exclaimed: "Have you seen what the papers have been saying about the robbery in Calle Mayor, last night?" "No.
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