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. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. “Well, you know. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. .
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