Realistically, it is black voile and a handkerchief.
Adelaida always has a handkerchief. And still I cannot resist it. I say,
'There's the hanky!' Nevertheless, in two minutes it has worked its way
with me. She squeezes it in her poor, plump hand as the tears begin to
rise; Fate, or man, is inexorable, so cruel. There is a sob, a cry; she
presses the fist and the hanky to her eyes, one eye, then the other. She
weeps real tears, tears shaken from the depths of her soft, vulnerable,
victimized female self. I cannot stand it. There I sit in the padrone's
little red box and stifle my emotion, whilst I repeat in my heart: 'What
a shame, child, what a shame!' She is twice my age, but what is age in
such circumstances? 'Your poor little hanky, it's sopping. There, then,
don't cry. It'll be all right. _I'll_ see you're all right. _All_ men
are not beasts, you know.' So I cover her protectively in my arms, and
soon I shall be kissing her, for comfort, in the heat and prowess of my
compassion, kissing her soft, plump cheek and neck closely, bringing my
comfort nearer and nearer.
It is a pleasant and exciting role for me to play.
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