What a pig she was. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. ‘Would you have me face my maker with that on my conscience? If I’d died, there’d have been no one to tell you, for your father would not have done. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to.
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