One Hundred Years of Solitude

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fingers, contracting them like
a shellfish until her wounded
hand, free of all pain and any
vestige of pity, was converted
into a knot of emeralds and
topazes and stony and
unfeeling bones.


Fool!   she  said   as  if  she

were spitting. Im sailing on
the first ship leaving for
Belgium.


            Álvaro  had come    to  the

wise Catalonians bookstore

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