“At a window of a house that faced the sea, embroidering by a machine at the hottest hour of the day, was a woman half in mourning, with steel-rimmed glasses and yellowish gray hair,and hanging above her head was a cage with a canary that didn’t stop singing. When I saw her like that in the idyllic frame of the window, I refused to believe that the woman there was who I thought it was, because I couldn’t bring myself to admit that life might end up resembling bad literature so much.”
Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Chronicle of a Death Foretold
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