“Sydney.”
“Yes?”
“Sydney.”
“I said, what is it?”
“It’s up to you, Mrs. Crawford,” Nadia cried softly.
“What do you mean?”
“Sydney.” Crawford’s monotonous, sad repetition of her name was the tragic undertone in the room.
“Be quick about it,” Nadia screamed in a whisper.
“I tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sydney.”