" him.” “Ah,” she said again, but this time with a far more weighted emphasis. “Poor Anna,” I added. “Hmm.” There was condemnation in that hmm, in the lift of one dark eyebrow that accompanied it, and in the sharp stab of the next chrysanthemum into the vase, but she was not going to be drawn into speaking ill of the dead, not she. If Elizabeth Fortescue thought Anna, too, was a ninny—or, more likely, a slut—I was not going to hear it from her. At least, not directly. Fortunately, she had fewer qualms about commenting on how the living were managing their lives, as she began to "

― G.M. Malliet , Weycombe