t;

    quot;Betty darling, Betty darling,quot; said my fatically. But my mot sing tions to  me, in a strange way, as if she were begging me for her life, as if I could pardon her. She was mumbling in Chinese.

    quot;Lena, o put in my moth.

    And for once, I  struck me t t possible t ened.

    quot;o be born,quot; s;I could already tle fingers, to stay inside. But tor, to pus, make , t and able, steaming h life.

    quot;  a stop looking at it. t oo! I could see all to o be, and tor sed!  an empty eggshell!

    quot;And to fill  air and rise up from table. turned to one side, to t looked rig to killing my ot to ;

    I could not tell my fat sy crib in ell him she was crazy?

    So t I translated for ;S all t ;

    After t, not all at once, but piece by piece, like plates falling off a s ing.

    Sometimes sart to make dinner, but op er running full steam in tables, silent, tears floimes ing and op and put our forks do;—It doesnt matter. My fat sit trying to figure out   didnt matter table, kno ime.

    My fato fall apart in a different o make tter. But it cching.

    quot;S tired,quot; o me  t tatue on  aring at e as if it ead of spagti.

    At  everyty eyes. My fatting my ;; but al me, to in my  in my stomac  I could feel it. I could feel every little movement in our silent  nigs on ten to deat edge lying across my neck, I used to  ter feeling sorry for myself, it comforted me someo t t door had a more unhappy life.

    But one ni