One Hundred Years of Solitude

glass, and yet no one ever
said to her, Good morning,
Fernanda, did you sleep well?
Nor had they asked her, even
out of courtesy, why she was
so pale or why she awoke
with purple rings under her
eyes in spite of the fact that
she expected it, of course,
from a family that had always
considered her a nuisance, an
old rag, a booby painted on
the wall, and who were
always going around saying