"I believe you want to see Antonia."
"What Antonia?" asked the Costaguana boulevardier, in a vexed and
disdainful tone. He shrugged his shoulders, and spun round on his heel.
His sister called out after him joyously--
"The Antonia you used to know when she wore her hair in two plaits down
her back."
He had known her some eight years since, shortly before the Avellanos
had left Europe for good, as a tall girl of sixteen, youthfully
austere, and of a character already so formed that she ventured to treat
slightingly his pose of disabused wisdom. On one occasion, as though she
had lost all patience, she flew out at him about the aimlessness of his
life and the levity of his opinions. He was twenty then, an only son,
spoiled by his adoring family. This attack disconcerted him so greatly
that he had faltered in his affectation of amused superiority before
that insignificant chit of a school-girl. But the impression left was so
strong that ever since all the girl friends of his sisters recalled to
him Antonia Avellanos by some faint resemblance, or by the great force
of contrast. It was, he told himself, like a ridiculous fatality. And,
of course, in the news the Decouds received regularly from Costaguana,
the name of their friends, the Avellanos, cropped up frequently--the
arrest and the abominable treatment of the ex-Minister, the dangers and
hardships endured by the family, its withdrawal in poverty to Sulaco,
the death of the mother.
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