“You're the one who started the whole thing to begin with, mom. I didn't want to fight and I certainly didn't want to...well...whatever happened. Lo...k, I was just trying to apologize, mom.” Mom raised her hand up and she cut me off, getting up and walking over to me. “You should apologize to me! And you should consider yourself lucky!,” she continued as she jabbed her finger into my shoulder a couple of times. “What are you mean lucky?” I asked her. Completely forgetting the conciliatory tone. “Sir Valentine has eyes on’y for young Izote,” the fat old cook admits, frightened by Ferdinando’s face, that reminds her of an over-broiled blood pudding, “not, Miss Durnley. An’ I ‘as no cut with Mary, she leaves me ter me kitchen, what suits I. If thee’s askin’ me, if’n that Valentine was goin’ ter murder that sweet boy, young Benjy fforde, an’ teke the girl fer hisself, I ask I-self else why camp on the green, when he ‘ad ‘is own ‘ouse an’ promise o’ ‘ot food ‘n’ a cumfty soft bed but a few. More

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