One scene between my mother and me may serve as a specimen for all.
I would come home with my trousers tucked up, and my high-lows
unlaced and full of water, sucking every time that I lifted up my
leg, and marking the white sanded floor of the front room, as I
proceeded through it to the back kitchen. My mother would come
downstairs, and perceiving the marks I had left, would get angry,
and as usual commence singing.
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