Chapter 24: The Goodwill of Mariquita

⁠​​​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌⁠Nevertheless I could not sleep on my hard but clean pillows, for wondering about that look of Monica’s, and its meaning; and whenever I shut my eyes, hordes of red and yellow figures poured out of white houses upon white roads, forming irritating, kaleidoscopic patterns on my tired retina.

Each hour that passed was cried by the watchman, far away, and then close under my window; a fearsome cry like