“I’ve had worse,” Netta said, and then catching herself, she added, “all my life.”
Lenore’s eyes were savage. “You’ve had worse all your life! Poor Dad!”
“It’s so plain it hurts,” Netta said. “You refuse Kit. Okay. Your father’s in jail-five to ten years. Kill him sure.”
“Maybe it would—what’s left of Dad!”
“The house goes. Both cars. All the furniture. Probably even our clothes, forced sales and repossession. Then we have nothing.”
“But self-respect.”
Netta said quietly, “You’ve never been poor. Flat. Stony. Broke. Without a friend or a dime—unless you hustle a friend and he gives you a dime. Maybe even a few dollars.”
Lenore thought that over. “I doubt it. People would tide you and me over—”
“Who?”
Lenore looked through a window. “The Conners.”