One Hundred Years of Solitude

even raise her eyes to pity her
on the afternoon when
Amaranta went into the
kitchen and put her hand into
the coals of the stove until it
hurt her so much that she felt
no more pain but instead
smelled the pestilence of her
own singed flesh. It was a
stupid cure for her remorse.
For several days she went
about the house with her hand
in a pot of egg whites, and
when the burns healed it