Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. You think everything is harmless and simple, and so forth. ’ But she reckoned without the fellow Trodger.
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