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 T H e W o M a n F r o M C H i a P a s except for the eyes, who would know her? eyes narrow and still and hard in a broad face, eyes young enough to be resigned and furious at the same time. The mother from Chiapas—we guess she’s seventeen— holds her child in a blue rebozo, his nose flat against her blouse, his face dark. The child, when he is grown, may become a storyteller, a man that men and women follow—grave, graceful, and forgiving. But the woman has seen grace terrify the bosses and make them brutal. she looks at us steadily. she foresees and does not forgive. ...

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