” This made her even angrier, so she stopped speaking to him for a week. The trio of girls approached the newly laid cement curb, where throngs of young girls in pink lip-gloss fanned and preened like peacocks as rich boys circled round, revving the engines of their father's red cars. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. His hand flew across the paper. “I can teach them so many things! Music, Latin, mathematics! Please do not take my Anna and Fritz away!” It was of no use. She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all.
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