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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.

27
It felt like I was living on the edge of a cli.
Sometime after I shaved my head, I went to Bryan’s apartment in Los
Angeles. He had two girlfriends from his past in Mississippi with him—my
mom was there, too. It was like my mom wouldn’t even look at me because I was
ugly now. It just proved that the world only cares about your physical
appearance, even if you are suering and at your lowest point.
That winter, I’d been told it would help me get custody back if I went to
rehab. And so, even though I felt I had more of a rage and grief problem than a
substance abuse problem, I went. When I arrived, my father was there. He sat
across from me—there were three picnic tables between us. He said, “You are a
disgrace.”
I look back now and I think, Why didn’t I call Big Rob to help me? I was so
ashamed and embarrassed already, but here was my dad telling me I was a
disgrace. It was the denition of beating a dead horse. He was treating me like a
dog, an ugly dog. I had nobody. I was so alone. I guess one positive of rehab was
that I started the healing process. I was determined to make the best of a dark
situation.
When I got out, I was able to get temporary fty-fty custody through a
great attorney who helped me. But the battle kept raging with Kevin and it was
eating me alive.
Blackout, the thing I’m most proud of in my whole career, came out right
around Halloween in 2007. I was supposed to perform “Gimme More” at the
VMAs to help promote it. I didn’t want to, but my team was pressuring me to
get out there and show the world I was ne.
The only problem with this plan: I was not ne.
Backstage at the VMAs that night, nothing was going right. There was a
problem with my costume and with my hair extensions. I hadn’t slept the night
before. I was dizzy. It was less than a year since I’d had my second baby in two
years but everyone was acting like my not having six-pack abs was oensive. I
couldn’t believe I was going to have to go out onstage feeling the way I felt.
I ran into Justin backstage. It had been a while since I’d seen him. Everything
was going great in his world. He was at the top of his game in every way, and he
had a lot of swagger. I was having a panic attack. I hadn’t rehearsed enough. I
hated the way I looked. I knew it was going to be bad.
I went out there and did the best I could at that moment in time, which—
yes, granted—was far from my best at other times. I could see myself on video
throughout the auditorium while I performed; it was like looking at myself in a
fun-house mirror.
I’m not going to defend that performance or say it was good, but I will say
that as performers we all have bad nights. They don’t usually have consequences
so extreme.
You also don’t usually have one of the worst days of your life in the same
exact place and time that your ex has one of his best.
Justin glided down the runway into his performance. He was irting with
girls in the audience, including one who turned around and arched her back,
shaking her breasts as he sang to her. Then he was sharing the stage with Nelly
Furtado and Timbaland—so fun, so free, so light.
Later that night, the comedian Sarah Silverman came out onstage to roast me.
She said that at the age of twenty-ve I’d done everything worthwhile in my life
I’d ever do. She called my two babies “the most adorable mistakes you’ll ever
see.” I didn’t hear that until later, though. At the time I was backstage sobbing
hysterically.
In the days and weeks that followed, the newspapers made fun of my body
and my performance. Dr. Phil called it a train wreck.

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 27
Patricia didn’t know her palms could sweat so much, but they left wet
marks all over her steering wheel as she drove up Rifle Range Road
toward Six Mile. She had sent Mrs. Greene Christmas cards, and the
phone worked both ways, and maybe Mrs. Greene hadn’t wanted to
see her, and maybe she was just respecting her personal space. She
hadn’t done anything wrong. Sometimes you just didn’t talk to
someone for a while. She wiped her palms on her slacks, one at a
time, trying to get them dry.
Mrs. Greene probably wasn’t even home because it was the middle
of the afternoon. She was probably at work. If her car isn’t in the
driveway, I’ll just turn around and go home, she told herself, and
felt a huge wave of relief at the decision.
Rifle Range Road had changed. The trees along the side of the road
had been cut back and the shoulders were bare. A shining new black
asphalt turnoff led past a green-and-white plywood sign bearing a
picture of a nouveau plantation house and Gracious Cay—coming
1999—Paley Realty. Beyond it, the raw, yellow skeletons of Gracious
Cay rose up from behind the few remaining trees.
Patricia turned onto the state road and began winding her way
back to Six Mile. Houses sat empty; a few were missing doors, and
most had For Sale signs in the front yard. No children played
outside.
She found Grill Flame Road and rolled down it slowly until she
emerged into Six Mile. Not much of it survived. A chain-link fence
hugged the back of Mt. Zion A.M.E., and beyond it lay a massive dirt
plain full of bright yellow earthmoving equipment and construction
debris. The basketball courts had been plowed up, the surrounding
forest thinned to an occasional tree, and all the trailers over by where
Wanda Taylor had lived were gone. Only seven houses remained on
this side of the church.
Mrs. Greene’s Toyota was in the drive.
Patricia parked and opened her car door and immediately her ears
were assaulted by the high-pitched scream of table saws from
Gracious Cay, the rumbling of trucks, the earsplitting clatter of bricks
and bulldozers. The construction chaos staggered her for a moment
and left her unable to think. Then she gathered herself and rang Mrs.
Greene’s front bell.
Nothing happened, and she realized Mrs. Greene probably
couldn’t hear her over the din, so she rapped on the window. No one
was home. Maybe her car had broken down and she’d gotten a ride to
work. Relief flooded Patricia and she turned and walked back to her
Volvo.
The construction was so loud that she didn’t hear it the first time,
but she heard it the second: “Mrs. Campbell.”
She turned and saw Mrs. Greene standing in the door to her house,
hair in a wrap, wearing an oversized pink T-shirt and a pair of
dungarees. Patricia’s stomach hollowed out and filled with foam.
“I thought—” Patricia began, then realized her words were lost
under the construction noise. She walked over to Mrs. Greene. As she
got closer she saw that she had a gray tinge to her skin, her eyes were
crusted with sleep, and she had dandruff in the roots of her hair. “I
thought nobody was home,” she shouted over the construction noise.
“I was taking a nap,” Mrs. Greene shouted back.
“That’s so nice,” Patricia shouted.
“I clean in the morning and I do overnight stocking at Walmart in
the evening,” Mrs. Greene shouted. “Then I go right back to work in
the morning.”
“Pardon?” Patricia said.
Mrs. Greene looked around, then looked into her house, then back
at Patricia, and nodded sharply. “Come on,” she said.
She closed the door behind them, which cut the construction noise
by half, but Patricia still heard the high, excited whine of a saw
ripping through wood. The house looked the same except the
Christmas lights were dark. It felt empty and smelled like sleep.
“How’re the children?” Mrs. Greene asked.
“They’re teenagers,” Patricia said. “You know how they are. How
are yours?”
“Jesse and Aaron are still living with my sister up in Irmo,” Mrs.
Greene said.
“Oh,” Patricia said. “Do you get to see them enough?”
“I’m their mother,” Mrs. Greene said. “Irmo is a two-hour drive.
There is no enough.”
Patricia winced at a massive crashing bang from outside.
“Have you thought about moving?” she asked.
“Most people already have,” Mrs. Greene said. “But I’m not leaving
my church.”
From outside came the beep-beep-beep of a truck backing up.
“Are you taking on any more houses?” Patricia asked. “I could use
some help cleaning if you’re free.”
“I work for a service now,” Mrs. Greene said.
“That must be nice,” Patricia said.
Mrs. Greene shrugged.
“They’re big houses,” she said. “And the money’s good, but it used
to be you’d talk to people all day long. The service doesn’t like you to
speak to the owners. If you have a question they give you a portable
phone and you call the manager and he calls the owners for you. But
they pay on time and take out the taxes.”
Patricia took a deep breath.
“Do you mind if I sit?” she asked.
Something flashed across Mrs. Greene’s face—disgust, Patricia
thought—but she gestured to the sofa, unable to escape the burden of
hospitality. Patricia sat and Mrs. Greene lowered herself into her
easy chair. Its arms were more worn than the last time Patricia had
seen it.
“I wanted to come see you earlier,” Patricia said. “But things kept
coming up.”
“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Greene said.
“Do you think about Miss Mary much?” Patricia asked. She saw
Mrs. Greene rearrange her hands. Their backs were covered with
small, shiny scars. “I’ll always be grateful you were with her that
night.”
“Mrs. Campbell, what do you want?” Mrs. Greene asked. “I’m
tired.”
“I’m sorry,” Patricia said, and decided she would leave. She put her
hands on the edge of the sofa to push herself up. “I’m sorry to have
bothered you, especially when you’re resting before work. And I’m
sorry I haven’t been out to see you earlier, only things have been so
busy. I’m sorry. I just wanted to say hello. And I saw Miss Mary.”
A distant clatter of boards falling to the ground crashed through
the window panes. Neither of them moved.
“Mrs. Campbell…,” Mrs. Green began.
“She told me you had a photograph,” Patricia said. “She said it was
from a long time ago and you had it. So I came. She said it was about
the children. I wouldn’t have bothered you if it was about anything
else. But it’s the children.”
Mrs. Greene glared. Patricia felt like a fool.
“I wish,” Mrs. Greene said, “that you would get back in your car
and drive home.”
“Pardon?” Patricia asked.
“I said,” Mrs. Greene repeated, “that I wish you would go home. I
don’t want you here. You abandoned me and my children because
your husband told you to.”
“That’s…,” Patricia didn’t know how to respond to the unfairness
of the accusation. “That’s dramatic.”
“I haven’t lived with my babies in three years,” Mrs. Greene said.
“Jesse comes home from football games hurt, and his mother isn’t
there to take care of him. Aaron has a trumpet performance and I’m
not there to see it. No one cares about us out here except when they
need us to clean up their mess.”
“You don’t understand,” Patricia said. “They were our husbands.
Those were our families. I would have lost everything. I didn’t have a
choice.”
“You had more choice than me,” Mrs. Greene said.
“I wound up in the hospital.”
“That’s your own fault.”
Patricia choked, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, then
pressed her palm over her mouth. She had risked all her certainty, all
her comfort, everything they’d carefully rebuilt over the last three
years to come out here and all she had found was someone who
hated her.
“I’m sorry I came,” she said, standing, blind with tears, grabbing
her purse, and then not knowing which way to go because Mrs.
Greene’s legs blocked her passage to the front door. “I only came
because Miss Mary stood behind my dining room door and told me
to come, and I realize now how foolish that sounds, and I’m sorry.
Please, I know you hate me but please don’t tell anyone I was here. I
couldn’t bear for anyone to know I came out here and said these
things. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Mrs. Greene stood up, turned her back on Patricia, and left the
room. Patricia couldn’t believe Mrs. Greene hated her so much she
wouldn’t even walk her to the door, but of course she did. Patricia
and the book club had abandoned her. She stumbled to the door,
knocking one hip into Mrs. Greene’s chair, and then she heard the
voice behind her.
“I didn’t steal it,” Mrs. Greene said.
Patricia turned and saw Mrs. Greene holding out a glossy square of
white paper.
“It was on my coffee table one day,” Mrs. Greene said. “Maybe I
brought it back here after Miss Mary passed and forgot I had it, but
when I picked it up my hair stood on end. I could feel eyes staring
into me from behind. I turned around and for a moment I saw the
poor old lady standing behind that door there.”
Their eyes met in the gloomy living room air, and the construction
noises got very far away, and Patricia felt like she had taken off a pair
of sunglasses after wearing them for a very long time. She took the
photograph. It was old and cheaply printed, curling up around the
edges. Two men stood in the center. One looked like a male version
of Miss Mary but younger. He wore overalls and had his hands
buried in his pockets. He wore a hat. Next to him stood James
Harris.
It wasn’t someone who looked like James Harris, or an ancestor,
or a relative. Even though the haircut was slicked with Brylcreem and
had a razor-edge part, it was James Harris. He wore a white three-
piece suit and a wide tie.
“Turn it over,” Mrs. Greene said.
Patricia flipped the photograph with shaking fingers. On the back
someone had written in fountain pen, 162 Wisteria Lane, Summer,
1928.
“Sixty years,” Patricia said.
James Harris looked exactly the same.
“I didn’t know why Miss Mary gave me this photo,” Mrs. Greene
said. “I don’t know why she didn’t give it to you direct. But she
wanted you to come here, and that must mean something. If she still
cares about you, then maybe I can put up with you, too.”
Patricia felt scared. Miss Mary had come to both of them. James
Harris didn’t age. Neither of these things could possibly be true, but
they were and that terrified her. Vampires didn’t age, either. She
shook her head. She couldn’t start thinking that way again. That kind
of thinking could ruin everything. She wanted to live in the same
world as Kitty, and Slick, and Carter, and Sadie Funche, not over
here on her own with Mrs. Greene. She looked at the photo again.
She couldn’t stop looking at it.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
Mrs. Greene went to her bookshelf and took a green folder off the
top. It had been used and reused and had different headings written
on it and scratched out. She laid it open on the coffee table and she
and Patricia sat back down.
“I want my babies to come home,” Mrs. Greene said, showing
Patricia what was inside. “But you see what he does.”
Patricia paged through the folder, clipping after clipping, and she
got cold.
“It’s all him?” she asked.
“Who else?” Mrs. Greene said. “My service cleans his house twice a
month. One of his regular girls is gone. I volunteered to fill in this
week.”
Patricia’s heart slowed to a crawl.
“Why?” she asked.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh gave me a box of those murder books y’all read.
She said she didn’t want them in her house anymore. Whatever Mr.
Harris is, he’s not natural, but I think he’s got something in common
with those evil men from your books. They always take a souvenir.
They like to hold on to a little something when they hurt someone. I
only met the man a few times but I could tell he was real full of
himself. I bet he keeps something from each of them in his house so
he can pull them out and feel like a bigshot all over again.”
“What if we’re wrong?” Patricia said. “I thought I saw him doing
something to Destiny Taylor years ago, but it was dark. What if I was
wrong? What if her mother did have a boyfriend and lied about it?
We both think we saw Miss Mary, we both believe this is a picture of
James Harris, but what if it’s just someone who looks like him?”
Mrs. Greene pulled the picture over to her with two fingers and
looked at it again.
“A no-good man will tell you he’s going to change,” she said. “He’ll
tell you whatever you want to hear, but you’re the fool if you don’t
believe what you see. That’s him in this picture. That was Miss Mary
who whispered to us. Everybody may be telling me different, but I
know what I know.”
“What if he doesn’t keep trophies?” Patricia asked, trying to slow
things down.
“Then there’s nothing there to find,” Mrs. Greene said.
“You’ll get arrested,” Patricia said.
“It’d go faster with two of us,” Mrs. Greene said.
“It’s against the law,” Patricia said.
“You turned your back on me once before,” Mrs. Greene said, and
her eyes blazed. Patricia wanted to look anywhere else but she
couldn’t move. “You turned your back on me and now he’s come for
your children. You’re out of time. It’s too late to find excuses.”
“I’m sorry,” Patricia said.
“I don’t want your sorry,” Mrs. Greene said. “I want to know if
you’ll come in his house and help me look.”
Patricia couldn’t say yes. She had never broken a law in her life. It
went against everything in her body. It went against everything she’d
lived for forty years. If she got caught she would never be able to look
Carter in the eye again, she’d lose Blue, and she’d lose Korey. How
could she raise the children and tell them to obey the law if she
didn’t?
“When?” she asked.
“This coming weekend he’s going to Tampa,” Mrs. Greene said. “I
need to know if you’re serious or not.”
“I’m sorry,” Patricia said.
Mrs. Greene’s face screwed itself shut.
“I need to get my sleep,” she said, starting to stand up.
“No, wait, I’ll go,” Patricia said.
“I don’t have time for you to play,” Mrs. Greene said.
“I’ll go,” Patricia said.
Mrs. Greene walked her to the front door. At the door, Patricia
stopped.

At the beginning of the chapter, the protagonist consults Eddie on which dress to wear to a country club cocktail party, hesitating between a simple cream dress, a black number, and a unique plum dress designed by Bea from Southern Manors. Despite the significance behind the latter, Eddie opts for the cream dress, leaving the protagonist feeling underdressed. Arriving at the Country Club of Birmingham, they are engulfed in its opulent ambiance, surrounded by the elite, sharply contrasting with the protagonist’s background. The air of superiority and wealth is palpable, with attendees boasting expensive attire and jewelry that could rival the GDP of small countries.

The protagonist feels out of place amidst the revelry, noting the focused indulgence in drinks over food. When Eddie goes to get drinks, leaving her alone, she is greeted by Emily, who introduces her to the group with a mix of warmth and superficiality. Despite the apparent acceptance into this circle, the protagonist cannot shake off feelings of alienation and longing for her former life.

Conversations with the group reveal layers of social dynamics, hinting at underlying tensions and secrets among the high society. A casual remark about Eddie’s increased drinking hints at personal concerns paralleling the superficial banter about fashion and jewelry. The chapter deepens when Caroline brings up the scandal involving Tripp Ingraham, accused of a heinous crime, introducing a darker subplot that appears to touch closely on the protagonist’s life. This mention unsettles the protagonist, reflecting her fear of how the actions of influential individuals like Tripp could disrupt her current standing.

A photographer’s presence at the event hints at the superficiality and surveillance within this elite community, capturing the moments of pretense rather than genuine interaction. As the chapter closes, the protagonist uses a religious remark to deflect an uncomfortable conversation about Tripp, showing her adaptability in navigating the social complexities of this affluent society. This moment signals her superficial integration into a world that remains largely alien and possibly hostile to her true self.

Chapter 27 of “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” by Anne Brontë titled “A Misdemeanour” unfolds with the narrator, Helen, expressing her intent to document the disconcerting events among the social circle at Wildfell Hall, particularly focusing on an incident of infidelity and moral lapse. It was the evening of October 4th, during a casual gathering, that Helen observed an intimate and inappropriate moment between her husband, Arthur, and Lady Annabella Lowborough, marked by an exchange of whispers, a held hand, and a kiss, hidden yet glaring in its betrayal. Witnessing this act, Helen experiences a tumult of emotions ranging from shock to indignation, amplified by Arthur’s drunken obliviousness to the gravity of his actions.

Profoundly disturbed, Helen confronts Arthur, highlighting the breach of trust and the dishonor to their vows. Arthur’s reaction is a mix of jest, denial, and weak justifications, punctuated by his assurance of it being a harmless folly fueled by inebriation. Helen, however, stands firm, underscoring the disrespect and potential ruin such behavior seeds, not just within their relationship but also in their social circle, pointing out the pain it would cause were the situations reversed. Their exchange deepens into a discourse on fidelity, love, and the sacredness of marriage vows, with Helen forcing Arthur to confront the disparity between his actions and the allegiance promised at the altar.

The chapter intricately navigates through the consequences of Arthur’s indiscretion, detailing Helen’s internal struggle between her affections for her husband and her moral compass, increasingly distressed by Arthur’s drinking and flippant disregard for marital fidelity. Despite the gravity of Arthur’s trespass, the chapter closes on a note of reluctant forgiveness from Helen, propelled by a mix of love, hope for reformation, and perhaps, an acknowledgment of the complex web of emotions and duties that bind her. Meanwhile, the social dynamics within Wildfell Hall are further strained, with Lady Lowborough’s apparent disdain and Lord Lowborough’s obliviousness adding layers to the already convoluted emotional landscape. Helen’s narrative not only critiques the social mores of her time but also delves deeply into the personal turmoil wrought by betrayal, weaving a tale of morality, love, and redemption amidst societal expectations and personal grievances.