But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. Nothing could occupy her attention long today, unless it concerned her situation. I hoped for a family like the Becks and I waded through the system until I got them, so maybe life isn’t so damn hopeless after all. G. My work will be all sufficient.
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