You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

26
Flailing those weeks without my children, I lost it, over and over again. I didn’t
even really know how to take care of myself. Because of the divorce, I’d had to
move out of the home I loved and was living in a random English-style cottage in
Beverly Hills. The paparazzi were circling extra-excitedly now, like sharks when
there’s blood in the water.
When I rst shaved my head, it felt almost religious. I was living on a level of
pure being.
For when I wanted to go out into the world, I bought seven wigs, all short
bobs. But if I couldn’t see my sons, I didn’t want to see anybody.
A few days after I shaved my head, my cousin Alli drove me back to Kevin’s. At
least I’d thought there’d be no paparazzi to see it this time. But apparently
someone tipped one of the photographers o, and he called his buddy.
When we stopped at a gas station, the pair of them came for me. They kept
taking ash pictures with a giant camera and videotaping me through the
window as I sat, heartbroken, in the passenger seat, waiting for Alli to come
back. One of them was asking questions: “How are you doing? You doing okay?
I’m concerned about you.”
We drove on to Kevin’s. The two paparazzi kept following us, taking pictures
as I was, once again, denied entry to Kevin’s. Turned away, trying to see my own
children.
After we left, Alli pulled over so we could gure out what to do next. The
videographer was right there at my window again.
“What I’m going to do, Britney—all I’m going to do—is I’m going to ask you
a few questions,” one of them said with that mean look on his face. He wasn’t
asking if he could. He was telling me what he was going to do to me. “And then
I’m going to leave you alone.”
Alli started begging the men to go away. “Please, guys. Don’t, guys. Please,
please…”
She was being so polite, and she was pleading with them as if she was asking
them to spare our lives, which it sort of felt like she was.
But they wouldn’t stop. I screamed.
They liked that—when I reacted. One guy wouldn’t go away until he got
what he wanted. He kept smirking, kept asking me the same terrible questions,
over and over, trying to get me to react again. There was so much ugliness in his
voice—such a lack of humanity.
This was one of the worst moments of my whole life, and he kept after me.
Couldn’t he treat me like a human being? Couldn’t he back o? But he
wouldn’t. He just kept coming. He kept asking me, over and over again, how I
felt not being able to see my kids. He was smiling.
Finally, I snapped.
I grabbed the only thing within reach, a green umbrella, and jumped out of
the car. I wasn’t going to hit him, because even at my worst, I am not that kind
of person. I hit the next closest thing, which was his car.
Pathetic, really. An umbrella. You can’t even do any damage with an
umbrella. It was a desperate move by a desperate person.
I was so embarrassed by what I’d done that I sent the photo agency an
apology note, mentioning that I’d been in the running for a dark lm role, which
was true, and that I wasn’t quite myself, which was also true.
Later, that paparazzo would say in an interview for a documentary about me,
“That was not a good night for her… But it was a good night for us—’cause we
got the money shot.”
Now my husband, Hesam, tells me that it’s a whole thing for beautiful girls to
shave their heads. It’s a vibe, he says—a choice not to play into ideas of

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

CHAPTER 26
Carter picked up Blue from James Harris’s house in the morning.
“It’s all going to be fine, Patty,” he said.
She didn’t argue. Instead she made Toaster Strudel, and told Korey
she couldn’t wear a choker to school, and had to listen while Korey
told her she was practically a nun, and then her daughter was gone,
and Patricia stood in her house, alone.
Even though it was October, the sun warmed the rooms and made
her sleepy. Ragtag found a patch of sunlight in the dining room and
collapsed onto it, ribs rising and falling, eyes closed.
Patricia had so many projects—finish with the kitchen cabinets,
pick up all the newspapers and magazines on the sun porch, do
something with the saltwater tank in the laundry room, vacuum the
garage room, clean out the closet in the den, change the sheets—she
didn’t know where to begin. She had a fifth cup of coffee and the
silence in the house pressed down on her, and the sun kept getting
hotter and warmer, thickening the air into a sleep-inducing fog.
The phone rang.
“Campbell residence,” she said.
“Did Blue get to school all right?” James Harris asked.
A thin sheen of sweat broke out across Patricia’s upper lip and she
felt stupid, like she didn’t know what to say. She took a breath. Carter
trusted James Harris. Blue trusted him. She had kept him at arm’s
length for three years and what had that achieved? He was important
to her son. He was important to her family. She needed to stop
pushing him away.
“He did,” she said, and made herself smile so he could hear it in
her voice. “Thank you for taking him in last night.”
“He was pretty upset when he showed up,” James Harris said. “I’m
not even sure why he chose to come here.”
“I’m glad he thinks of it as a place he can go,” she made herself say.
“I’d rather him be there than out wandering the streets. It’s not as
safe in the Old Village as it used to be.”
James Harris’s voice took on the relaxed quality of someone who
had plenty of time to chat. “He said he was scared you’d gone next
door and called the police, so he hid in the bushes behind Alhambra
for a while. I didn’t know if he’d eaten, so I heated up some of those
French bread pizzas. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Is there something going on at home?” James Harris asked.
The sun coming through the kitchen windows made Patricia’s eyes
ache, so she looked into the cool darkness of the den instead.
“He’s just turning into a teenager,” she said.
“Patricia,” James Harris said, and she heard his voice shade
earnest. “I know you got a bad impression of me when I moved here,
but whatever you think, believe me when I say that I care about your
children. They’re good kids. Carter works so much and I worry about
you doing this mostly by yourself.”
“Well, his private practice keeps him busy,” Patricia said.
“I’ve told him he doesn’t have to make every dollar in the world,”
James Harris said. “What’s the point of working if you miss out on
your kids growing up?”
She felt disloyal talking about Carter behind his back, but it was
also a relief.
“He puts a lot of pressure on himself,” she said.
“You’re the one with pressure on you,” James Harris said. “Raising
two teenagers practically by yourself, it’s too much.”
“It’s hardest on Blue,” she said. “He has such a hard time keeping
up at school. Carter thinks it’s attention deficit disorder.”
“His attention is fine when it comes to World War II,” James
Harris said.
The familiarity of discussing Blue with someone who understood
him relaxed Patricia.
“He spray-painted a dog,” she said.
“What?” James Harris laughed.
After a moment, she laughed, too.
“Poor dog,” she said, feeling guilty. “His name is Rufus and he’s
the school’s unofficial mascot. Blue and Slick Paley’s youngest spray-
painted him silver and now they’ve both got Saturday school for the
rest of the year.”
Just saying it out loud sounded absurd. She imagined it becoming
a funny family story next year.
“Will the dog be okay?” James Harris asked.
“They say he will,” she said. “But how do you clean spray paint off
a dog?”
“I just bought a new CD changer,” James Harris said. “I’ll ask Blue
over to help me hook it up. If it comes up, I’ll ask him what happened
and let you know what he says.”
“Would you?” Patricia asked. “I’d be grateful.”
“It’s good talking this way again,” James said. “Would you like to
come over for some coffee? We can catch up.”
She almost said yes because her first instinct in every situation was
to be agreeable, but she smelled something clean and cool and
medical and it took her out of her bright, sunny kitchen for a
moment and suddenly it was four years ago and the garage door was
open and she could smell the plastic incontinence pads they used for
Miss Mary. For a moment she felt like the woman she had been all
those years ago, a woman who didn’t have to constantly apologize for
everything, and she said, “No, thank you. I have to finish cleaning out
the kitchen cabinets.”
“Another day, then,” he said, and she wondered if he’d heard the
change in her voice.
They hung up and Patricia looked at the locked garage room door.
She smelled the carpet shampoo she used to use in Miss Mary’s
room, and the pine-scented Lysol Mrs. Greene sprayed after Miss
Mary had an accident. Any minute she expected to see the door
swing open and Mrs. Greene come up the steps in her white pants
and blouse, a balled-up bundle of sheets in her arms.
She made herself stand up and walk to the door, the smell of Miss
Mary’s room getting stronger with every step. She took the key off
the hook by the door and watched her hand float out on the end of
her arm and insert the key into the deadbolt. She twisted and the
door popped open and it swung wide and the garage room stood
empty. She smelled nothing but cool air and dust.
Patricia locked the door and decided to clean all the newspapers
off the sun porch and then finish the kitchen cabinets. She walked
through the dining room, where Ragtag lay sunbathing, twitching
one ear as she passed. On the sun porch, light bounced off
newspapers and glossy magazine covers, dazzling her. She picked up
the papers Carter had left on the ottoman and walked back through
the dining room to the kitchen. As she stepped into the den, a voice
behind the dining room door said:
patricia
She turned. No one was there. And then, through the crack along
the hinges of the dining room door, she saw a staring blue eye
crowned by gray hair, and then nothing but the yellow wall behind
the door.
Patricia stood for a moment, skin crawling, shoulders twitching.
She felt a muscle tremble in one cheek. There was nothing there.
She’d had some kind of olfactory hallucination and it made her
believe she’d heard Miss Mary’s voice. That was all.
Ragtag sat up, eyes focused on the open dining room door. Patricia
put the papers in the garbage and made herself walk back through
the dining room to the sun porch.
She picked up copies of Redbook and Ladies’ Home Journal and
Time and hesitated briefly, then walked back through the dining
room to the den. As she passed the open dining room door again,
Miss Mary whispered from behind it:
patricia
Her breath stopped in her throat. Her knuckles cramped around
the magazines. She could not move. She felt Miss Mary’s eyes boring
into the back of her neck. She felt Miss Mary standing behind the
dining room door, staring madly through the crack, and then came a
torrent of whispers.
he’s coming for the children, he’s taken the child, he’s taken my
grandchild, he’s come for my grandchild, the nightwalking man,
hoyt pickens suckles on the babies, on the sweet fat babies with their
fat little legs, he’s dug in like a tick, he’s dug in like a tick and he’s
sucking everything out of you patricia, he’s come for my
grandchild, wake up patricia, wake up, the nightwalking man is in
your house, he’s on my grandchild, wake up patricia, patricia wake
up, wake up, wake up…
Dead words, a lunatic river of syllables hissing from between cold
lips.
“Miss Mary?” Patricia said, but her tongue felt thick and her words
were barely a whisper.
he’s the devil’s son the nightwalking man and he’s taking my
grandchild, wake up wake up wake up, go to ursula, she has my
photograph, it’s in her house, go to ursula…
“I can’t,” Patricia said, and this time she had enough strength to
make her voice echo off the den walls.
The whispers stopped. Patricia turned and the crack in the door
stood empty. She jumped at the sound of fingernails tapping, but it
was only Ragtag getting up and trotting out of the room.
Patricia didn’t believe in ghosts. She had always considered Miss
Mary’s kitchen-table magic something that might be interesting to a
sociologist from a local college. When women she knew said
Grandmama appeared in their dreams and told them where to find a
lost wedding ring or that Cousin Eddie had just died, she got
irritated. It wasn’t real.

You are being provided with a book chapter by chapter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chapter. After reading the chapter, 1. shorten the chapter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any important nouns in the chapter. 3. Do not translate the original language. 4. Keep the same style as the original chapter, keep it consistent throughout the chapter. Your reply must comply with all four requirements, or it’s invalid.
I will provide the chapter now.

26
The Baptist church where John works isn’t one of the bigger congregations in the area. In the South,
I’ve noticed, some churches take up entire blocks.
John’s hardly looks like a church at all. It’s a squat, ugly brick building, and only the stained-glass
window of Jesus surrounded by lambs tips you off to the fact that it’s a house of worship.
I’ve dressed in one of my best outfits today, a blue pleated skirt with a white boatneck blouse,
paired with blue-and-white-striped ballet flats and silver jewelry. When I’d looked in the mirror this
morning, I almost hadn’t recognized myself. I didn’t look like the Jane I’d been two months ago, but I
also didn’t look like I was trying to copy Emily or Campbell.
Or Bea.
I looked like … me.
Whoever that was turning out to be.
My shoulders are back as I open the door, my head high, and when I step inside, the girl sitting at
the desk gives me a bright smile.
She probably thinks I’m here to donate money.
She’s half-right.
“Hiiiiii,” I drawl, sliding my sunglasses up on my head. “Is John Rivers here?”
I don’t miss it, the way her smile droops just the littlest bit.
I feel you, girl.
“He’s in the music room,” she says, pointing down the hall, and I thank her.
The church smells like burnt coffee and old paper, the linoleum squeaking under my shoes as I
make my way to a room at the end of the hall where I can already hear jangling guitar chords.
John is sitting on a riser in the middle of the room, a music stand in front of him. I can see the
cover of his sheet music book. Praise Songs for Joyful Hearts.
Appropriate, because my heart is pretty fucking joyful right now.
His fingers slide on the strings as he looks up and sees me there, and I register that beat, the
fractional moment before he recognizes me.
He’s wearing his navy polo today, the one with the church’s logo on the chest, and his hair has
been combed back from his face. He’s also wearing an awfully nice new pair of sneakers, and if I
doubted it before, I now know that not all of Eddie’s money went to a new sound system.
“Jane.” John gets up, putting the guitar down, and I hold a hand up.
“I won’t be here long,” I tell him. “I just dropped in to let you know that I finally talked with your
mysterious Phoenix contact.”
The blood literally drains from his face. I watch it, the way his cheeks fade from ruddy pink to a
sickly sort of gray, and it almost makes the shit he put me through worth it.
But not quite.
“You know, he was actually kind of a nice guy. Especially when I explained to him that anything
you had told him was bullshit.”
I can still feel the shock, the sheer fucking relief that had coursed through me as the voice on the
other end of that mysterious phone number told me that he was employed by a Georgie Smith, who
was looking for her sister, Liz. That Georgie thought Liz had had a daughter who had ended up in
foster care in Arizona, that she might have gone by the name Helen Burns, and that Georgie would
like to meet her.
I’d made myself sound regretful, almost a little wistful as I’d confirmed that I’d been in foster
care with Helen, but that last I heard, she’d gotten involved in drugs, and I thought she might have
headed even further west, Seattle, maybe? No, Portland. One of those. But in any case, I hadn’t heard
from her or seen her in years, and—a lowered voice here, a conspiratorial whisper—I wouldn’t
bother talking to John Rivers any further. John Rivers had a history of conning older women like Mrs.
Smith—he’d string her along, promise he knew her niece, then he’d never deliver. The private
investigator didn’t sound surprised, just said he knew the type and thanked me for my time.
When I’d hung up the phone, I’d waited for real regret, knowing I’d just snipped the one thin
thread still holding me to any family. And a year ago, even a few months ago, knowing my mom had
had a sister who was looking for me would’ve made me feel almost pathetically grateful. Aunt
Georgie.
Now, it was just another loose end to tie up. I’d made my choice, made my family, and I was
closing the door on all of it.
And most importantly, now I was certain: no one knew what had really happened in Phoenix.
I’d gotten away.
John is still staring at me, his throat working, and I wonder if this is how good he felt when he
surprised me in the Home Depot parking lot.
If so, I almost don’t blame him for doing it.
“Anyway, I made sure he knew you were shady as fuck, and, just for a little extra flavor, I
might’ve implied you were also kind of pervy and obsessed with me, so he will definitely not be
answering any more of your calls.”
That part’s not true, but it’s too fun to watch him sweat.
Still, he’s not totally beaten yet. “You did something, Jane,” he says. “You ran from something. Or
you never would’ve paid me.” He steps forward. “You never would’ve come to live with me in the
first place if you weren’t on the run. We were in the same group home for what? Two months? You
barely knew me. But you needed somewhere to hide. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I don’t have to tell you shit,” I say, and he glances at the door, wincing a little.
I look over my shoulder, remembering the girl at the desk, remembering where we are, and almost
laugh. “Are you … worried about me swearing? In this conversation about you blackmailing me?”
I move closer, my new expensive handbag dangling in the crook of my elbow, Eddie’s ring
winking on my finger.
“You are smarter than I ever gave you credit for, I’ll allow that,” I tell him. “But this is over now.
You don’t call me, you don’t call Eddie, you forget you ever knew me or that I ever existed.”
His face is sullen, but he still says, “Forget you? Or forget Helen Burns?”
My heart still thuds heavily in my chest when I hear that name.
It’s over.
She’s gone now.
“Get fucked, John,” I tell him sweetly, and then glance up at the picture on the wall, another
portrait of Jesus, this time with a bunch of kids around his feet instead of lambs.
“Sorry,” I mouth at him with an exaggerated grimace, and then I walk out.
As I pass the desk again, I see the girl watching me with obvious curiosity on her face, and I give
her another smile as I pull a checkbook out of my purse.
“My fiancé and I had heard your church was in need of a new music system.”
I leave the church several thousand dollars poorer, but a truckload smugger. Let John ever try shit
like this again now that his boss, the Reverend Ellis, came out to shake my hand and thank me
effusively for my generosity, promising me that both Eddie and I will be thanked in every church
program from here on out.
I want John to see that every Sunday.
Mr. Edward Rochester, and his wife, Mrs. Jane Rochester.
Okay, maybe I jumped the gun a little with the wife bit, but we are getting married. Eddie is
innocent. And I’m—free.
I get into the car, my hands wrapped around the steering wheel, and I take a deep breath.
It isn’t like I killed Mr. Brock, after all. Killing someone and letting them die are two different
things.
He deserved it.
He let Jane die. The real Jane, the one I loved, the one who was the best friend I ever had, my
sister, even if we didn’t share any blood. We’d shared a home, though. We’d shared a nightmare.
She was always puny, always small. Always getting whatever cold or stomach bug went around
our school. Usually, I could help. Vitamin C, orange juice. Taking notes for her so she didn’t get
behind.
But that last time, she got sick and didn’t get better. The cough got wetter, deeper. Her fever ran
higher.
You have to take her to the doctor, you have to, I’d begged the Brocks, but they’d make excuses,
like they always had.
She’s fine, she’s faking, it’s not that bad.
Jane died in my bed, huddled next to me, her body glowing so hot I could hardly hold her.
But I did hold her. I held her as she gasped for breath and shook and finally went still.
Pneumonia. It might have killed her even if the Brocks had gotten her to a hospital. She was so
weak already.
I would never know.
So it had felt like a kind of poetic justice, that night that it was just me and Mr. Brock in the house.
Mrs. Brock was at bingo, and by then, I was the only foster kid in their care.
He’d been watching TV, a baseball game, and some call had pissed him off. Sometimes that had
meant one of us got hit, but that night, he’d just stood up, screaming at the television, his face red.
I’d been sitting at the kitchen table, filling out paperwork for a shitty fast-food job when he’d
suddenly gasped, clutched his chest.

Chapter 26 of “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” by Anne Brontë delves into the complex dynamics of the characters during the visit of Lord and Lady Lowborough to the narrator’s home. Lord Lowborough appears significantly changed for the better since his marriage, though he still exhibits signs of discontent, which his wife skillfully manages with a mix of manipulation and flattery, ensuring her power over him. The chapter also highlights her dangerous game of flirting with Mr. Huntington, aimed at invoking jealousy for her amusement. The narrator, presumably Helen, observes this with a calm, determined indifference, focusing on maintaining a serene demeanor to thwart both their intentions.

Helen confronts her own feelings of jealousy, especially when Lady Lowborough captivates her husband with her musical talents, revealing a stark contrast to the couple’s dynamic, where genuine delight is rare. She contemplates reciprocal flirtation with Mr. Hargrave, who shows her marked attention, especially when her husband neglects her, but she resists this inclination out of respect for her marital bond and the norms of hospitality.

A visit to Mr. Hargrave’s home exposes the societal pressures and personal vanities that drive much of the characters’ behaviors. Mrs. Hargrave, driven by a desire to ascend the social ladder, indulges in superficial grandeur at the expense of her family’s genuine comfort, revealing a broader critique of societal values. The undercurrents of financial imprudence, the pursuit of social status, and the moral compromises made in the name of reputation are evident in her handling of her family’s affairs. The chapter intricately weaves individual stories of desire, jealousy, and societal pressures, reflecting Brontë’s keen observation of human nature and social dynamics.