“You can sit there,” he refers to a bench beside the door.
Why there, she wonders?
Why at the door, sitting on an uncomfortable bench and not in one of the leather chairs? Of course, she doesn’t argue with her host. Instinct tells her that the man is not in the mood to argue. He’d as easily order her out as have her ruin the session with unimportant questions.
Taking her seat, she immediately concludes that this seat is intended for his slaves. It’s almost impossible for Sydney to arrange herself on the bench in any ladylike way. But she manages to clamp her thighs shut tight and sit at the edge of the wood, facing sideways. Her thoughts return to the interview room in the transfer sector, where a humiliatingly low stool was the only seat available for Melinda duBois to sit.
As she ar
