You know that my soul, however lacerated it may have been, did not stand there in a corner like a lonely, livid flower. I did not give it that color or it did not. I lived the best I could, without lacking friends to console me at first. Caprices of little hard, it's true. They left me as people who attend a retrospective exhibition, and either get enough of it, or the light of the room fades. One of these visits had a car at the door and a charioteer of livery. The others went modestly, and asked me if it was raining, and it was raining, I was going to get a car from the square, and put them inside, with great farewells, and great recommendations:
-Do you read the catalog?
-It; see you tomorrow.
-See you tomorrow.
They were not coming back. I stood at the door, waiting, went to the corner, peeped, consulted the clock, and saw nothing or anyone. Then, if there was another visitor, he would give her his arm, we would go in, show him the paizagens, the historical or genre paintings, an aquarella, a pastel, a gouache, and also it would fall, and leave with the catalog in hand ....