"She wears knee-length socks because her feet are cold even in summer. She sits on the edge of the bed and rolls them down-shin, calf, ankle-then stops. She rights herself. Her stomach stops her from bending over. She takes a deep breath, stretches her arms, and finishes the job. She folds her socks and places them under her pillow. They're for sleeping. Marília may not be sweet, but gazing at her from the other half of our bed, I can't help loving her. There goes Marilia into the kitchen, and I think of how I will soon be roused by the sound of metal clanging, drawers closing, and the whistling of an old tune we no longer know the lyrics to. I face the window, its blinds still shadowy from twilight, close my eyes, and smile. The racket begins. She doesn't do it on purpose, her hands just don't know silence. The door slams, and from the depths of our home, I hear the same old melody, I wonder what song it is. I figure it must be ours." Book jacket.