Leery Attachment Replies, Page 33.

At night she would replay her life over and over, trying to discover how it had ended like this. She rarely managed to find sleep before dawn. The apartment had low ceilings and, in the summer, the rooms were stuffy and unbearably hot. During the day she puttered around in old slippers, talking to herself without realizing it. Sometimes she would repeat a sentence fifty times...She went from one room to another carrying a washrag or a saucepan whose purpose she had already forgotten. 'Her own father's funeral...Her own father's funeral...' She walked back and forth in the tiny two-room apartment staring at some fixed, faraway point. 'France...France...' she repeated slowly, her voice dying away.