Both daughters had married well; their husbands earned 
        enough, and more each year.
Her husband’s business was good and they had as much as two
       elderly people wanted.

Her younger daughter died in childbed.

Her husband had gone to his store long before.
She wrapped her head and shoulders in her shawl, knitting her thoughts.
She got up at last and poured herself some brandy.
When she went out she took a brandy flask in her bag to nip in lavatories.

Her other daughter died in childbed.
Her son-in-law married again. The new wife took the elder
       children from school and sent them to work.
They became coarse; their house was full of quarreling.

Their grandmother was now in an asylum.
Her husband came to see her. Once he saw the lunatic children playing in the yard.
“Why do you cry?” she asked. “You cry for them, but not for me…
I am sharpening a knife to kill my grandchildren, but not you:
       you must pay for my board here.”