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Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Michelle smiled. ’ ‘But it is stupide. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. She turned with an effort. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.
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