‘You are a fucking cow,’ she said. ‘A fucking cow with a hide of leather and no heart.’ Lady Uckfield seemed to think over these words for a moment before nodding. ‘Probably there is some truth in your unflattering description,’ she acknowledged. ‘And it is perhaps for that reason, or something resembling it, expressed hopefully in more fragrant language, that I have made such a success of my opportunities and you have made such a failure of yours. Goodbye, my dear.’
