Perhaps He Was Afraid As

I Write A Thousand Words A Day.

All These Types Of Love Come Out Of Duty, Respect, And Gratitude. Most Of Them, As The Women In My County Know, Are Sources Of Sadness, Rupture, And Brutality.

We Hug, But There Are No Tears. For Every Awful Thing That's Been Said And Done, She Is My Sister. Parents Die, Daughters Grow Up And Marry Out, But Sisters Are For Life. She Is The Only Person Left In The World Who Shares My Memories Of Our Childhood, Our Parents, Our Shanghai, Our Struggles, Our Sorrows, And, Yes, Even Our Moments Of Happiness And Triumph. My Sister Is The One Person Who Truly Knows Me, As I Know Her. The Last Thing May Says To Me Is 'when Our Hair Is White, We'll Still Have Our Sister Love.

While She Is Lovely, We Need To Remember That Her Face Is Not What Distinguishes Her. Her Beauty Is A Reflection Of The Virtue And Talent She Keeps Inside.

Our Words Had To Be Circumspect. We Could Not Write Anything Too Negative About Our Circumstances. This Was Tricky, Since The Very Form Of A Married Woman's Letter Needed To Include The Usual Complaints -- That We Were Pathetic, Powerless, Worked To The Bone, Homesick, And Sad. We Were Supposed To Speak Directly About Our Feelings Without Appearing Ungrateful, No-account, Or Unfilial.