Sybylla’s tendency toward self-deprecating humor returns as she claims that the story of her life—which her audience is nearly finished reading—is worthy of no instrument greater than nails in a pot. She muses about the purpose of writing and the purpose of her life more broadly. She hopes to find a greater purpose one day, but as of now, her purpose is to help her father back from pubs. This task weighs on her emotionally, but at least it is a purpose.