But that morning, I had refused to do it any more. It made me feel like a beggar and thief when anybody saw me.
“I’d sooner go to work in a shop,” I cried.
“Who’ll give you work when you’re so thin and small, like a dried-out herring!”
“But I’m not going to let them look down on me like dirt, picking people’s ashes.” And I cried and cried so, that Mother couldn’t make me do it