Irish heard it clearly, with her eyes slightly raised, but it only fell on Joseph's hand. His fingers were still as slender as usual, and his palms were still so broad, but she did not know when the elegant coat had faded, leaving only cruelty as he was last night and at present.
Who was that woman?
Was she the next woman he would use, or was she his old lover?
She thought the latter was most likely, for the woman was so familiar to him, and she called her "Joseph" casually.
So Joseph couldn't wait?
He took her to this place and brought her the tea himself. What kind of a noblewoman would make Joseph do it himself?
Irish thought of it, and her heart seemed to be cut by a sharp saw every time she breathed.
It was good to say that the woman upstairs would succeed in diverting his hatred against her, and he might let her go, and after that, they will become strangers.
