The old woman bent over and waved her hand to fan the fire. With her hunched back and flabby neck ringed with wrinkles she looked like an ancient black tortoise. But that poor ragged dress certainly did not protect her like a shell, and in fact she was so slow only on account of her years. Behind her, also crooked, her hovel of wood and tin cans; and beyond, other similar hovels in the same suburb of Sao Paulo; in front of her, in a charcoal-colored pot, the water for coffee was boiling. She raised a little can to her lips; before drinking, she shook her head and closed her eyes. She said: "Brazil is ours."
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