Michael Malone - Weebly

Kate jerked out of the chair. "Fuck. You live here.
If it's such a craphole, why've you been here for the last
forty or fifty years? I know it's not because you can't
tear yourself away from Daddy either, because
sometimes I think you don't give a crummy shit about
him! Just because you married for money, or whatever
it was, doesn't mean I have to!"
Mrs. Ransom looked up at the gilt-framed mirror.
The girl, the woman, her daughter, glared at her, the
blue eyes (like her husband's) bluer behind the
narrowed black lashes; the brows tightened with anger.
There was her own mouth, thin with anger, her own jaw
thrust against her. Mrs. Ransom lowered her head to
her hands. But how could she be crying when she didn't
cry? Evelyn cried all the time, Beanie cried, even Tracy
admitted to tears, but Priscilla Hancock, when looking
life in the face, had always, always laughed.
As terrified as if she had been again a child who
feared she had the power to kill, Kate stared at the
turban bent toward the table.
Then she rushed around the chair, fell to her knees,
and hugged her mother's back. "Oh, God, I'm sorry!