That was her ruin
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— Mas isso mesmo foi a perdição dela, coitada!— continuou a creoula velha.
'But that very thing was her ruin, poor soul!' the old creole went on.
'That very thing' — the beauty just praised — 'was her ruin.' Joaquina states the chapter's cruel logic: on a slave, loveliness is not a gift but a mark. What draws the master's eye is what destroys the woman it lands on. The whole tragedy of both Juliana and Isaura is folded into the phrase.
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