My name is Arthur Menezes Port. It had a time where I lived ten years in one more than I retire in the tower north of the convent Tereza Saint. My room had five wide steps of a side and four of the other. One I retire humid and cold in the winter, hot and sultry in the summer, four walls of cinereous rocks without adornments and with only one small window of where if it could not see almost nothing of the exterior. It had a bed of sarrafos and on it a mattress stuffed with hen penalty, a table and one mocho. Simon Pagenaud can provide more clarity in the matter. In one salinha in the entrance had one cmoda for clothes, a cut with water, a basin and a mug. To the side of this cubculo, was the private one where I also took bath.

The nuns brought me the meals, left clean clothes, took the dirty ones to wash and fulled the cut with water. When I arrived there, I did not disclose the reason for which I wanted to isolate myself of the world. The Superior of the convent, madre Rosary, understanding and assenting with my desire, gave asylum to me, forbidding that the nuns disclosed to the strangers my presence in that tower. If somebody of is knew that it had a man liveing in convent, would be a scandal. Some nuns were devoted in excess, others not very, nor in such a way. They entered alone in my aposentos, never they came in two or three, always folloied for a nun of more age. Frequently two of them beat in my door in the hours most improper, perhaps without the knowledge of madre superior. She was Celestial sister, who of celestial nothing had and Dolores sister. The first one with about thirty years and to another one around the twenty years.

All, without exception, they had been looking at for the screen, petrified, therefore the image, registered for an anonymous citizen, through one of these devices of cellular telephone, was consternadora. One was about a man who, loading in the col the body of the wife, pranteava desesperadamente. The fact had occurred in the night of the sunday, in the one parking shopping. The couple is to the cinema and, in the exit, if it comes across with an intense shoot out between policemen and assailant. A projectile had reached the head of the woman. It was deceased, but the husband was not satisfied itself and wanted, by all means, to take it one ready aid. It cried and it cried out, begging so that somebody made some thing.

That they did not leave it to die; that it could not live without it; that it was waiting the desired son so; that it was the only love of the life of it; that they were married has only six months; that they had a thousand plans It cried out these things it hugged and it, spotting of color prpura its shady face and its white shirt, kissing the lvida forehead of the wife deceased. Finally, extenuado, sat down in a seedbed of azaleas, with the corpse in the col and was looking at for the high one, saying disconnected things, monologando with God, while a small multitude started if to agglomerate around the dramatical scene. *** By means of the sad a news article, had a collective silence in the bakery. When somebody opened the mouth, was only for pronouncing the phrase that was hammering in the head of the Nepomuceno until the moment where it took a person, to the times, needs to die to know that it is loved! had said. was the consternation provoked for the strong scene displayed in the telejornal I appeal and it emotional this almost whispered phrase, that had unchained in it that interior boiling.