tricky secretive depressed

Tricky secretive depressed

“McCallum, nigh Kyle of Lochlash, though my grandfather claimed he has laird of all the sea to Stornaway.” Yes, please. “That was good,” I said. Aunt D?rfinna opens the desktop cabinet, the piece of furniture that she sometimes let me investigate when I was little. In the shallow drawers she kept a locket with a photo of her Unnar, her wedding ring, which had become too narrow for her work-swollen fingers, old photos, and faded yellow letters, among them one from Great-grandpa Anton?us to Great-grandma Alda from when they were courting. My aunt opens the drawer where Great-grandpa’s letter is kept and takes out a familiar folder of beige silk. Embroidered on it are carrier pigeons, which I’ve known well ever since I was a kid. Their wingspans are abnormally wide, reminding me more of eagles than pigeons. In this silk folder D?rfinna has kept my secret. She pulls out a brown envelope with a rubber band around it. On it are the words ING?LFUR ?SGEIRSSON, in D?rfinna’s handwriting. I’d suggest you keep that to yourself. Cosette could have represented any one of the many unfulfilled dreams in Mom’s unsuccessful life. The boat trips that were never taken, discourses on everything and nothing, the infidelity that led to my birth. She kept that foreign doll in a locked glass cabinet where nothing else was allowed to be, a little idol that I wasn’t allowed to touch unless Mom was watching.A symbol of her chaotic dreams that weighed so heavily upon us and threatened to suffocate us alive. What a grudge I bore against the totem doll in the cabinet where Mom stood with her hands clasped, poised as if worshipping. Once when she wasn’t at home, I stole the key and took out Cosette. I started caressing her extremely hypocritically, acting as if I didn’t know what I was up to, then produced a long darning needle and stuck it in the doll’s rump. She dug out some extraordinarily amusing clothes, which she kept for months, for years, and she knew how to give them a very makeshift appearance at the last moment. At Mimizan, in the Landes, I organised a workers’ holiday camp. This experiment costs me millions, which I don’t regret. Buildings were constructed to house three or four hundred women. I paid for the travel expenses—second-class, so that they shouldn’t be offended—with one month’s paid holiday, instead of the legally entitled fortnight. Everything’s on the table: freshly harvested small potatoes in a floral bowl that’s older than I am, melted butter in a sauceboat, cabbage rolls on a platter, the same white-and-blue dishes that I ate off of in my childhood. Even the nick in my plate is the same, a comfort in a hard world that changes sorapidly, and badly. Both my private world and the outer world. No stone unturned, except in D?rfinna’s garden. Where there are, in fact, stones unturned. ‘Is he coming to the launch?’ Hickey wanted to know when I got off the call. First day of evidence, 10 march 2016 “And who would have done it?” G,A,L, he began recording, writing the letters over each hole. The five papers each had different letters or numbers indicated by the tiny holes. After several minutes he had five clusters of letters and numbers.Galilee, said the first, thenWorld’s End,Runners missing, andMassnyconnri. According to my calculations of comparative misery, no greater misery can exist. To have a child who treats her own dear life so badly that she could die from it, or even worse. To have a child who is sick or dies in an accident— that’s something over which we have no influence. There’s no one to blame. You nurse the child back to health if possible, you take care of her as long as you live or she lives. Those who lose a normal child will never be the same, but they have beauty on their side, the beauty in the memory of their dead child. There’s no beauty in the memory of a child who’s turned into a monster. If she dies, there’s ugliness in the memory, and there’s someone to blame, most likely the mother. The mother who didn’t know how to raise the child, the mother who pumped polluted, sinful blood into her. In other words, I destroyed the child who’s destroying herself. How did I do it? What cunning methods did I use? So cunning that I wasn’t aware of them myself, so cunning that I still don’t see what I did that was so incredibly wrong. Except for getting pregnant at the wrong time. But others before me have done the same. Kip’s property ended at a cliff that overlooked the ocean. The tiny bands of waves were far enough away that you could see but not hear them..

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Tricky secretive depressed