CHAPTER 5Whatever further item of paternal wisdom Miss Olive was about to impart died unborn in the silent room. Her voice faded away. The cup rolled on the floor until it hit a chair leg and stopped. Jonas could have put a foot out and stopped it. He was intent on the problem of keeping his own grip firm on the damask napkin around the bottom of his own cup. When he recovered enough to look at the woman on the sofa beside him, Philippa was staring across at Miss Olive, her eyes distended, her red mouth stupidly open. The brown stain of applejack and bourbon whiskey was spreading rapidly over her lap. She opened her mouth to speak. The color was drained out of her face as she got slowly to her feet and stood there, swaying.
Her voice was a gasping whisper that rose to a hysterical cry.
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