One Hundred Years of Solitude

in the afternoon, Fernanda
recognized the voice of the
man who came to call on her.
He was young, sallow, with
dark and melancholy eyes
which would not have startled
her so much if she had known
the gypsies, and a dreamy air
that to any woman with a
heart less rigid would have
been enough to make her
understand her daughters
motives. He was wearing a
shabby linen suit with shoes