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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 188 on the crummy shirt in the first place. It was not me. "I like to have clean shirts to wear, that's all I ask." "I tried to get the spots out. They wouldn't come," I say. "Wear the yellow one instead." "The yellow one is wrinkled. Don't you even look at these before you hang them up?" "I said I was sorry. It looks all right to me." "Well, it isn't!" I can feel my backbone stiffening. "I'll do it over." "Don't bother. I'll wear it wrinkled." "Damn it!" I say, "I'll do it over!" He says nothing, then "I'll manage. Why don't you just go pick up the house. It looks like a pig-pen. Can't you manage to have the boys pick up after themselves? I work hard all day - I shouldn't have to come home to this." He sighs and runs his fingers along the top of the bookcase and shakes off the dust with his thumb. It does not matter that I have pulled a mountain of dirty clothes six blocks to the laundramat in a rusty flyer wagon, or that I washed four loads in a machine I had to kick at ten-minute intervals to keep it going. Or that I had to put up with the baby fussing and drooling over a new tooth and Matthew either trying to help or else whining for a soda the whole time. There |