Gods, I hated the south. All full of all this so-called “southern hospitality”. Vague threats and hidden insults disguised as polite conversation. Sympathetic apologies and placations, all disgustingly fake. For someone like me, who had such a difficult time with social cues in the first place, having a polite conversation with someone like the widow Seraphine Slythe would have been like playing tennis blindfolded with a ping-pong paddle. On roller skates. In the dark.
