She

the Graysons, did you?” His voice was much gentler, and her face flamed. “Well, why didn’t you take it to Commander Venizelos, then?” he asked reasonably.
“I—" She wiggled in her chair, feeling younger—and more awkward—than in years. “I didn’t know how he might react—or the Captain. I mean, the awful way they treated her, and she never said a word to them. . . . She might have thought I was being silly or . . . or something,” she finished lamely.
“I doubt that.” Tremaine poured fresh coffee for himself and poised the pot interrogatively above Wolcott’s cup. She nodded gratefully, and he poured, then sat back nursing his cup. “Why do I have the feeling it’s the ‘or something’ that worries you, Ms. Wolcott?”
Her face flamed still darker, and she stared down into