The sooner she ran out of their sight, the more vibrant her rehearsal of the calls had become.
She was the only one fi ghting. And yet nobody knew.
Like father like son. Her father-in-law, who yearly grew sweet potatoes and peanuts, and who would soon celebrate his seventieth birthday, had a great fondness for small gambling games, such as playing bridge. Like Bing, he was a heavy smoker with his teeth stained black and his fi ngers so deadly brown that the skin seemed to have taken on the color of tobacco. The outline of his face was a fresh tea-leaf upside down. His piercing eyes with single-fold eyelid were as keen as a rat’s. His outward appearance was calm with slow movement. But he was seething inside as an introvert with a quick temper. His general shape appeared to be as thin as a skeleton. He slightly stooped, his face wrinkled with dense freckles. He casually coughed, cleared his throat, smoked a pipe, sighed, sat sideways with his legs crossed and made his usual tea.