She shook her head, returning to safer, less discomfiting ground. “It was a group of men talking about her. I stumbled upon them at a ball. They didn’t see me. They were too busy seeing her.” She lifted her good shoulder. Let it drop. “Sesily’s shape is . . . Well, men notice it. And because our blood does not run blue, men like you—” She stopped. Reconsidered. “Men who think themselves above us . . . they do not hesitate to comment on it. I suppose they think they are clever. And perhaps they are. But it doesn’t feel clever.” She looked up at him. “It feels horrid.”
