And in that time she let me sit with her and read to her and argue with her about the end of a book neither of us liked, and she wore a sweet on her finger until it went soft and then she kept it in a tin.
And she had it drawn up in the July — a letter that protects me from her own children — with that paragraph in it, which she could have left out.
She did not leave it out. She put it in deliberately and she put it at the end.
She wanted me to know that she knew.
And she timed it so that I would find out only after she was dead and only if they came after me — which is to say, only at the moment when I would be most certain that I was the wronged one.
And the thirty tellings, which I have mentioned twice and which I should set out, because they are what this account actually is.
