. . . well, no, I don’t feel very forgiving, if I’m honest with myself.

If either of those (not them – those) – if either of them tried to make an entrance now, I’m not sure what I would say.

Could I trust them ever again?  How many years has it been now?

No.  I’m not talking of Ruth or Hortense, but another two –

Pearl.  And Dean.

But – sorry, I can’t push this.


Sometimes, I feel as though I have a death’s-head.

I know.  It’s not very nice, is it?

But, sometimes, my mouth stretches in a snarl, and I bare my teeth.

And I’m like a skull-gone-wrong.

Sorry.  It’s not so pretty, but it’s what I live, sometimes, and I feel as though I do need to apologise . . .


You mean I’m not supposed to show my feelings?

I’m supposed to keep up a pretence at all times? – who me? – yes, I’m okay – oh no – it didn’t bother me.

Not at all.

I am so sweet-and-innocent . . .

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