"I swear, Ava, do you see the way some of the women look at Isla? It's like she has the f*****g plague." Erin grumbles, stomping a booted foot and taking a clothespin from my outstretched hand. "Inbred backward bitches," using the pin, she raises it to clasp the corner of the bedsheet to the washing line, the white fabric flapping in the wind.
"Seriously, who still hangs their laundry outside? What are we, f*****g Amish?" Erin continues with her rant as I pass her another bed sheet. I know what she means in regard to Isla. Except for Siobhan, Reagan, and Eileen, most women either avoid her or openly sneer at her as Caitlín did. Before heading outside to do the washing, we noticed some of the younger girls, Roisin being one of them, outwardly make fun of her inability to talk back, calling
