Everything they believed about who was worth respecting had been exactly, humiliatingly backward, and they knew it, and there was nothing either of them could find to say.
I felt, watching them sit in that silence, no urge to make it easier for them, and also no urge to make it worse.
Their shame was doing more thorough work than any speech of mine could have.
Because Bronwen and Hywel had not merely misjudged me — anyone can misjudge a quiet person.
What they had done was actively prefer the woman who tried to kill their son.
For six years they had measured worth by exactly the things Carys Renton wore into my emergency department at three in the morning: the expensive coat, the polish, the ambition that announced itself.