a maid who belonged in the cellar.
I did not scream. Nor did I hit her. I never raised my voice.
I reached down with my right hand, took Eleanor’s wrist in a firm, unyielding grip, and removed her fingers from my jacket individually.
Then I reached into my pocket, unfolded a clean silk handkerchief, and calmly, methodically, wiped the charcoal wool of my lapel exactly where her fingers had touched it.
Eleanor stared at the gesture, motionless. It was a rejection more absolute, more tactile, and more humiliating than