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CHAPTER VI.
 In the evening, when the fever returned, she seemed already much more dangerously affected1.  
On her robust2 body, the malady3 had violently taken hold,—the malady recognized too late, and insufficiently4 nursed because of her stubbornness as a peasant, because of her incredulous disdain5 for physicians and medicine.
 
And little by little, in Ramuntcho, the frightful6 thought of losing her installed itself in a dominant7 place; during the hours of watchfulness8 spent near her bed, silent and alone, he was beginning to face the reality of that separation, the horror of that death and of that burial,—even all the lugubrious9 morrows, all the aspects of his future life: the house which he would have to sell before quitting the country; then, perhaps, the desperate attempt at the convent of Amezqueta; then the departure, probably solitary10 and without desire to return, for unknown America—
 
The idea also of the great secret which she would carry with her forever,—of the secret of his birth,—tormented him more from hour to hour.
 
Then, bending over her, and, trembling, as if he were about to commit an impious thing in a church, he dared to say:
 
“Mother!—Mother, tell me now who my father is!”
 
She
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