he turns his attention to the seven-year-old.
“Right, and what about you?” “What do you mean, me?” she counters with indignation.
“Do you need food or do you have to go for a wee or anything like that?”
The child looks at him as if he just offered her a beer and a cigarette.
“I’m almost EIGHT! I can go to the bathroom MYSELF!” Ove throws out his arms abruptly.
“Sure, sure. So bloody sorry for asking.” “Mmm,” she snorts.
“You swored!” yells the three-year-old as she turns up again, running to and fro between Ove’s trouser legs.
He skeptically peruses this grammatically challenged little natural disaster. She looks up and her whole face smiles at him.
“Read!” she orders him in an excitable manner, holding up a book with her arms stretched out so far that she almost loses her balance.
Ove looks at the book more or less as if it just sent him a chain letter
insisting that the book was really a Nigerian prince who had a “very lucrative investment opportunity” for Ove
and now only needed Ove’s account number “to sort something out.”
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