“My complexion?” Marina echoed with a frown, far too used to being bombarded by her husband's whining and her niece's jibes that it took her a moment longer than it should to distinguish between a thinly-veiled insult and a simple fact, remarked upon neutrally.
She supposed that that had been the latter after all. “No,” she replied decisively, pretending she had not been at all wrong-footed, “not quite. Her mother had the misfortune of marrying a pasty-faced Englishman.”
“I say with no offence intended,” Marina added quickly, realising that she had spoken a touch more truthfully than she usually allowed; Tryphena might be a pest and a porcelain doll, but she did try to keep that to herself in public. (Why, if she had her way she'd not care if her charge ever came back.) On the bright side, she supposed, the gentleman before (- above -) her had a complexion that was a little too weather beaten to be properly pasty, and she fancied his accent was a mark of not necessarily being English. (She hoped. She had never been much good at identifying all the odd dialects of the British Isles.)
She supposed that that had been the latter after all. “No,” she replied decisively, pretending she had not been at all wrong-footed, “not quite. Her mother had the misfortune of marrying a pasty-faced Englishman.”
“I say with no offence intended,” Marina added quickly, realising that she had spoken a touch more truthfully than she usually allowed; Tryphena might be a pest and a porcelain doll, but she did try to keep that to herself in public. (Why, if she had her way she'd not care if her charge ever came back.) On the bright side, she supposed, the gentleman before (- above -) her had a complexion that was a little too weather beaten to be properly pasty, and she fancied his accent was a mark of not necessarily being English. (She hoped. She had never been much good at identifying all the odd dialects of the British Isles.)