One Hundred Years of Solitude

from anything, where she
wove funeral wreaths as a
pastime, since her godfather
had sent a letter with his
signature and the stamp of his
ring on the sealing wax
simply to say that the hands
of his goddaughter were not
meant for tasks of this world
except to play the clavichord,
and, nevertheless, her insane
husband had taken her from
her home with all manner of
admonitions and warnings