[Mariah Ellison to Mr. Roberts, a reporter who has been trying to provoke her.]
'Does your mother know what you do?' she said tartly. 'And how you do it?'
He looked startled.
'That would make an interesting article, don't you think?' she went on. 'How does a woman face her neighbors, her friends, should she have any, and explain how her son twists the words of the frightened and bereaved, so as to make them seem dirty? Tell me, do you ever question anyone who has the back? Pursue those you love? Do you have a wife? Children? Are they proud of you? Or afraid?'
'Really, Mrs. Ellison --' he protested.
She rose to her feet, lifting her weight a little by leaning on the arms of the chair. 'Of course you don't!' she answered her own question. 'If you did, you would leave them open to retaliation, and you wouldn't be so foolish. Now that I have told you what little I know, you can share it with... what is the collective noun for journalists? A pack? You are less like hunters, more like carrion feeders. You go after the already wounded -- or dead. I know it is a ' 'murder' ' of crows. That seems appropriate.' She glared at him and was satisfied to see the color rise in his face. 'I'll shall have the footman show you out.' (section 6)