He stood alone in the parlor, examining a horrendous portrait of her mother that Sarah insisted be left above the fireplace. Hat hooked over his first two fingers, he tapped it against his leg with a certain sense of idleness common in someone tired of waiting.
“It is not a decent likeness of my mother.” She tilted her head toward the portrait. “Maybe in the eyes, but the artist was paid far greater than his ability deserved.”
