Chapter 25 chapter Five

As she staggered (she tossed and tossed like a ship in the sea), squinted (her eyes never looked directly at anything, she always squinted at the world's jeers and Angry—she was brainless, she knew it); she sang as she clung to the banisters of the stairs and struggled up the stairs, staggering from room to room.While wiping the mirror on the dressing table, she squinted at her swaying figure, and a voice came out of her mouth—maybe it was the cheerful singing on the stage twenty years ago, when she hummed This tune is singing and dancing, but now, the singing comes from the mouth of the childish housekeeper, and it has lost its meaning. It is like the sound of ignorance, humor, and tenacity. bounced back, so that as she stumbled dusting and mopping the furniture she seemed to say: How long is one's sorrow and trouble, from morning to bed, taking things out and in, Life is so mechanically monotonous.She has lived for nearly seventy years, and she knows that this world is not easy and comfortable.Fatigue had bent her waist.Kneeling under the bed and creaking the dust off the floor, she groaned in agony: How long, she asked, how much longer can she bear it?But she struggled to stand up again and staggered on, squinting again and again, and even turned away from her own face, her own sorrow, and ignored it. She stood in front of the mirror and yawned aimlessly. Smiling, she walks briskly and unsteadily again, lifts up the mat, puts down the porcelain, and squints at the image in the mirror, as if she also has her own comfort after all, as if in her elegy, there are indeed intertwined and never-ending hope.Pleasant phantasms must have been reflected in the wash-tub: such as with her children (but two were illegitimate, and one deserted her), drinking in the tavern; rummaging in her drawers. Fragile wealth.The darkness is not monolithic, there are always cracks; there must be channels in the dark abyss through which enough light can shine through to reflect her distorted face grinning in the mirror, and she resumes her work Come on, purse your lips and hum the stale tune of the showroom.Walking on the beach one fine night, stirring a pool of mud, gazing at a stone, they asked themselves, "Who am I?" "What is this?" The answer (they couldn't tell what it was) gave them some warmth in the frost and comfort in the desert.However, Mrs. McNabb, who has gone through many vicissitudes, still continued to drink and chat.