Go away, Laura Damián. And then at last her face grows dim and my room isn’t Laura Damián’s face anymore but a room in a modern asylum, with every modern convenience, and the eyes watching me are the nurses’ eyes again and not Laura Damián’s (she has eyes in the back of her head!), and if no moonface of a watch glows on my wrist it’s not because Laura has taken it, not because Laura has made me swallow it, but because it’s been stolen by the lunatics you see running around here, these poor Mexican lunatics of ours, these ignoramuses who strike out or cry but who don’t know a thing.
