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The graveyard is now literally a bank of human limestone. I have asked my little guide to take me to Marie Iteye, the only Acoma who speaks English; and I meet her now stepping smartly across the square, feet encased in boots at least four sizes smaller than mine, red skirt to knee, fine stockings, red shawl and a profusion of turquoise ornaments.
"I marry, yes," said Marie Iteye, my Acoma guide, to me, "and I have one girl her," pointing to a pretty child, "but my man, I guess he a bad boy he leave me." If the wife tires of her lord, all she has to do is hang the saddle and bridle outside. My gentleman takes the hint and must be off.
Out at Acoma, with its 700 sky dwellers perched sheer hundreds of feet straight as arrow-flight above the plain, you can count the number of doors on one hand. Acoma is still pure Hopi. Only one inhabitant Marie Iteye speaks a word of English; but it is Hopi under the far-reaching and civilizing influence of "Marmon and Pratt."
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