Judith stirs the laundry pot, poking at a sleeve, a hem, a stray cap. “I mean,” she says quietly, without looking at her sister, “because I resemble him so closely. Perhaps it is hard for Father to let his eye rest upon me.” Susanna is speechless. She tries to say, in her usual tone, don’t be ridiculous, what utter nonsense. It is true, though, that it has been a long time since their father came to them. Not since the funeral. No one says this aloud, however; no one mentions it.
