And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle. Spurling, who sat on the right of the table. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. “You do not even know what you are talking about. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. I would have liked to know. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. Not entirely.
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