Anne cringed under those words. She stared blankly at her tea while fresh tears burned in her eyes, though they did not fall. Simon was hardly ever mentioned at home. So little that there were times when Anne felt a yearning to about what had happened - to open this cesspit. And yet whenever something brought back the memories of violence and fear, the horror at what Simon had done, thoughts of how afraid and lonely he must have felt while awaiting the end, Anne was perfectly happy to keep it tightly sealed. If a broken cup could seem intact when left alone, so could a broken heart.

But Mrs. Blacke's words did not hurt her for the recollection of Simon's suffering or ill deeds, nor for the spitefulness of their intent, but rather because some silent, painful, disloyal part of Anne had already thought them before, and out in the open they created a tension that made it hard to breathe.

She bit her lip and nodded quietly, not looking at Mrs. Blacke. Her fingers wrapped around the cup yet more firmly. Suddenly, the delicate china snapped in her grip. Anne pulled her hands back in fright. She looked down at the broken china and spilled contents and gasped: "Oh Mrs. Blacke! I am so sorry!"