buttonhole, and he would
translate Petrarchs sonnets for
Amaranta. They would sit on
the porch, suffocated by the
oregano and the roses, he
reading and she sewing lace
cuffs, indifferent to the
shocks and bad news of the
war, until the mosquitoes
made them take refuge in the
parlor. Amarantas sensibility,
her discreet but enveloping
tenderness had been wearing
an invisible web about her
nextflipdebug2
(nextflipdebug2)
#1