“The girl looks ill.”
Madam made a moue.
“Oh—that is nothing; she is always the color of sour cream. Lord, but I think I hate the child; she drags things into my mind that make me miserable.”
The angles of the man’s mouth twitched slightly.
“By the plague, Nan, why let yourself be overshadowed?”
“Why—indeed! We might understand that, you and I.”
He turned to her sharply with a gleam of impatience in his eyes.
“Why not be rid of the little blight?”
“Yes, no doubt—and how? Are you ingenious enough to suggest a method?”
“Get her married.”