She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. “It was a phase,” she said. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. My Mom and Dad were on the brink of divorce, what else is new, they still are. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it.
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