"No," Roger said quietly. "I never thought of it once."
"Are you glad now, really glad we have him?"
"I certainly am, Anne; what on earth is the matter with you?"
Anne began to cry. "Merle told me—Tom—oh, Roger, it makes me sick all over. I—I loathe that man. How can he care about the world and—and—be like—he is?"
Roger's hands dropped from Anne's shoulders. "Let's not discuss Tom, Princess; we never agree."
Anne flared. "You don't think it's wicked or disgusting, you don't really—you wouldn't have—minded."
"Stop it, Anne, please. You're being awfully unjust and you know it. He was poor, broke, hunted, everything was chaos. The cases aren't the same at all. Besides, Merle isn't fit to be a mother."
"She's fit to be a mistress."
Roger turned to the couch again and picked up his book.
Anne stood where she was, tense, her lips drawn.