Well, I don’t see why he’d ask after Cordelia,’ said
Aunt Agatha, pinching her tiny lips. She looked like a lemon balanced on an armchair.
Josephine pouted. ‘I suppose he has terrible taste.’ She laid her hands on the piano and began loudly playing. Her stiff brocade dress looked as though it was chaffing at her shoulders. Her carrot- hued hair had been tortured into curls that bounced with each note.
‘Some men prefer features like hers,’ replied Uncle Edward, walking over and patting Josephine’s shoulder. ‘Her mother was a woman of the night, you know.’
Cordelia looked on, and kept her mouth shut. She knew there was little point in protesting her guardian’s words. To relieve some tension, she dug her fingernails into her blue linen skirt.
Her uncle looked up as if she had defended he
