Cecily Grant was skimming through the pages of Mrs. Pryce's book, holding it carefully as if the pages themselves were soiled. "Evil woman. Can you imagine writing down all these stories with pride?"

“I haven't looked at it yet," Jane said, rummaging in the cabinet for some crackers.

Cecily was silent for a minute while Jane was setting the crackers on a cookie sheet in the oven for a minute to crisp them up. "Here's a story about some poor seamstress in Hawaii," Cecily said with venom. "Pryce says she fired the woman when she wanted to bring her baby to work because the grandmother had died and she had no one to keep the child. Listen to this: 'I told her, of course, that children had no role in the workplace, as all decent Americans knew very well. Though she was very unhappy about it at the time, I'm sure she benefited from the knowledge and later had cause to thank me in her prayers.' The nerve!”

Jane was frantically searching the refrigerator. She'd bought some very good brie as a concession to her mother's visit just the day before, and couldn't find it. Where could a large, white cheese hide in a confined area?

“Here's another one," Cecily was continuing in anoutraged tone. "Mrs. Pryce was interned in a prison camp in the Philippines during the war—can you imagine being locked up with the woman for a couple years? She turned in a young woman who had stolen some powdered milk from the stores. One of their own people. The woman was tortured to death for it. Pryce says it was 'unfortunate,' but makes the point that they had to behave in a civilized manner and keep close control of their limited food supply or face the consequences. Garr!"

“Mother, are you sure you want to take this class?" Jane said, spying the missing cheese getting squashed under an orange juice carton. Katie must have done that.

Cecily closed the book and shoved it aside. "Of course. I just won't look at this anymore. We can ignore her."