bushes or the brightness of
the hour or the persistence of
Amaranta, whose melancholy
made the noise of a boiling
pot, which was perfectly
perceptible at dusk, and he
would sit in the street door as
long as the mosquitoes would
allow him to. Someone dared
to disturb his solitude once.
How are you, Colonel? heasked in passing.
Right here, he answered.