“I never can keep Western places straight,” Augusta said. “Tombstone–really, what a name! Is that where Oliver is, too?” Her interest was false; she did not care where Oliver was. Susan read in her half-flippant exclamation every sort of half-contemptuous dismissal: anyone who was associated with the West, and in particular Oliver Ward, brought a new tone to Augusta’s voice, the tone she used for troublesome tradesmen, tedious women, boring men.
Ah. Augusta's words have painted her the bitch I thought she was.
