At length, some time after supper, Margarita, to my sorrow, rose to
retire, though not without first once more asking her uncle's blessing.
After her departure from the kitchen, finding that the inexhaustible
talking-machine Anselmo was still holding forth fresh as ever, I lit
a cigar and prepared to listen.
CHAPTER VIII
When I began to listen, it was a surprise to find that the subject of
conversation was no longer the favourite one of horse-flesh, which had
held undisputed sway the whole evening. Uncle Anselmo was just now
expatiating on the merits of gin, a beverage for which he confessed
to a special liking.
"Gin is, without doubt," said he, "the flower of all strong drinks.
I have always maintained that it is incomparable. And for this reason
I always keep a little of it in the house in a stone bottle; for, when
I have taken my _mate_ in the morning, and, after it, one or two
or three or four sips of gin, I saddle my horse and go out with a
tranquil stomach, feeling at peace with the whole world.
"Well, sirs, it happened that on the morning in question, I noticed
that there was very little gin left in the bottle; for, though I could
not see how much it contained, owing to its being of stone and not of
glass, I judged from the manner in which I had to tip it upwards when
pouring it out. In order to remember that I had to bring home some
with me that day I tied a knot in my handkerchief; then, mounting my
horse, I rode out towards the side on which the sun sets, little
expecting that anything unusual was going to happen to me that day.
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