Ove has long warned about these awful things, but no one has listened.
Since then he has never showed his face in any meeting of the Residents’ Association.
His mouth makes a movement as if it’s just about to spit every time he mentally enunciates the words
“Residents’ Association.” As if they were a gross indecency.
He’s fifteen yards from his broken mailbox when he sees Blond Weed.
At first he can’t comprehend what she’s doing at all.
She’s swaying about on her heels on the footpath, gesturing hysterically at the façade of Ove’s house.
That little barking thing—more of a mutt than a proper dog—which has been pissing on Ove’s paving stones is running around her feet.
Weed yells something so violently that her sunglasses slip down over the tip of her nose. Mutt barks even louder.
So the old girl has finally lost her faculties, Ove thinks, standing warily a few yards behind her.
Only then does he realize that she’s actually not gesticulating at the house.
She’s throwing stones. And it isn’t the house she’s throwing them at. It’s the cat.
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