the face and stomped his foot, but had launched a knee into... well... the region wasn’t named, but merely alluded to with a brisk cluck of her tongue and a knowing loft of her eyes.
Hannah, who had witnessed the confrontation, kept silent, doing her best to concentrate on the roast chicken and buttered peas on her plate. But at every reference to that awful slap, she could feel a slight constriction in her throat that had nothing to do with Nancy’s overcooked fowl or undercooked vegetables.
It shouldn’t have bothered her the way it had—that shocking blow. Heaven knew she’d been tempted to slap Delaney herself that day he came to discuss the disposition of the house. And if he ever had nerve enough to return, she’d probably have to keep her hands tucked tightly in her pockets in restraint.
Today’s incident shouldn’t have affected her at all, but Hannah reminded herself she’d have felt the same sympathy for a stricken dog or cat. The tide of emotion that had swept through her meant nothing, really. It wasn’t personal. Not in the least. Why, if Delaney had been a lowly beast—and who was to say the man wasn’t?—she would have felt a similar, perhaps even a stronger, onrush of compassion.
All of a sudden Hannah realized her dining companions had fallen silent. She looked up from her plate to find them all staring at her rather expectantly.
“Weren’t you?” Florence Green asked.
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