“It’s his job to provide for you, Abigail. And if this is how he sees best, then I don't know what you can do.”
“Oh, mama, no!” she wailed.
“Hush, you'll sleep here tonight, and we'll talk again in the morning.”
“What's Abigail doing here,” her father's voice rose above her cries, as Mr. McPhearson opened the bedroom door. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Not seriously, Neville. Just some adjustments.”
“Shouldn't she be making her adjustments with her husband?”
“Sometimes it takes a mother's touch.”
“Look at me, girl. What's your complaint?”
Abigail pulled away from Margaret McPhearson's arms and looked up at her father with her tear-stained face. Seeing his stern visage, she shriveled back.
“Out with it!” he ordered.
“I'd rather not say, sir,” she snuffed.
“Is it some womanly m
