Priscilla Woodbridge gushed. With her usual grasp of iron, she dragged Judith along the gravel path toward the center of the garden. “I’ve been having a splendid time,” Judith replied. “The Sweeney’s house is charming.” “There’s a great deal of money here,” the irrepressible Priscilla said, looking around at the manicured plots of flowers. She opened a delicate lacy fan and waved it to cool her cheeks. “Linette Sweeney has become quite high in the instep since she married George. Involved in charity work, much to the dismay of the poor who have enough on their plates without that totty-headed do-gooder doling out largesse. Linette chooses not to remember, but her father-in-law was Timothy Marcus Sweeney. Most referred to him, behind his back of course, as Black Sweeney. He was involved in the trade.” “The slave trade?” Judith asked bluntly, annoyed at the popular euphemism. Priscilla’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Don’t bristle so, my dear. There are few families without the obligatory skeletons.
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