“On a traitor cur in Andredswold!”
“Madame, my husband.”
The woman’s contention was not so illogical when Igraine came to consider it in a less personal light. Morgan may have loved the man Madan for all she knew, and she could feel for her in such a matter. She looked at her with less scorn for the moment, and less injustice of thought.
“Perhaps you have grieved much,” she said.
Morgan gave a blank stare.
“Grieved?”
“You loved your husband?”
“I did, while he lived.”
“And no longer?”
“What is the use of wasting one’s youth on a corpse?”