I pace around the conference table stamping the outrage I’ve felt all day through my feet. I wanted to call out Mr. Hastie for the liar he is, but all I could do was stare straight ahead. I asked for an interview with Mr. Trevelyan. I demand to know why he doesn’t stop Mr. Hastie’s lies and innuendos. I want Mr. Trevelyan to wipe the smirk off Mr. Hastie’s face every time he doesn’t “suggest” anything. It’s as if I’m the one on trial.
But Mr. Trevelyan just sits there. Occasionally he makes a note. Meanwhile, Mr. Hastie accuses me of being a trollop or worse, though I don’t know what could be worse than that. Dear God, how can this be happening?
The side door opens, and Mr. Carruthers walks in. I don’t want to talk to him. I want Mr. Trevelyan.
“Do sit down, Miss Pigot,” Mr. Carruthers says. “It can’t be good for your health to pace in this heat.” He wipes his face.
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