The following morning I awoke free of the abominations of the previous day; I called them hallucinations, had my breakfast, leafed through the newspapers, and went to study some documents relating to a lawsuit. Capitu and cousin Justina went out for nine-o’clock mass at Lapa. The figure of Sancha disappeared completely in the midst of the allegations made by the opposing party, as I read them in the documents, false allegations, inadmissible, with no support in law or precedent. I saw that it was easy to win the case; I consulted Dalloz, Pereira e Sousa …
Only once did I look at Escobar’s portrait. It was a fine photograph taken a year previously. He was standing, with his frock coat buttoned, his left hand on the back of a chair, his right hand on his chest, looking into the distance to the left of the onlooker. He looked both elegant and natural. The frame I had had made for it did not cover up the dedication, written beneath, not on the back “To my dear Bentinho, with affection, Escobar 20–4–70.” These words strengthened the thoughts I had had that morning, and drove away the memories of the previous day. In those days my sight was good; I could read the words from where I was sitting. I went back to the documents.