I knew it. She kept trying to shut her legs, to stop the baby from coming out. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. He walked in her direction. Yet, here she was, in the ancient Chinese city, weaving in and out of the narrow streets some scarcely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, streets that boiled and eddied with yellow human beings, who worshipped strange gods, ate strange foods, and diffused strange suffocating smells. "Look at him!" Ruth looked. My mom doesn’t realize that I’ve got my own style. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own.
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