No more tension. A cool breeze seems to sweep through the streets. The young kids are marvelous. In front of Duarte Filho’s house it is like a ballet. I’ve never seen such really beautiful dancing as fills the streets of Mossoró for hours, far into the night.
The governor and his party have gone on to another comicio. Don’t they ever get tired? I can still hear the piping and throbbing of distant sambas drifting in through the window of the pleasant old tropical hotel—there’s a shower, and a clean bed and the trade wind through the louvers, and even a reading light—what more could you want?—as I drift off to sleep.