Morante de la Puebla's montera
seemed to be overturning like a cauldron over the fire of his veronicas.
And they were enlivened by the air of the old, that old inspiration, the sepia of old photographs.
The montera had looked at herself in a Guerrita mirror, and Morante was looking at Rafael's.
The chin sunk in the packaging, the chest filled with bullfighters, the compass in the high hand from outside, the heart in the inside.
From a genuflex cast to the stocking,
veronica were slowly falling from hoj
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