The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. He fended these things off from him with the rump of his fourth piece of cake. All her pride raged at me. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. This I have sworn to do—this I will do. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance.
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