"Linda, is that true?" Claire's voice was sharp.
Linda's wide eyes fluttered as she clung tightly to Gilbert's leg. "That little stool is mine. Hilary tried to steal it from me."
"How can you prove it's yours? Hilary has been living here for several days, using that stool every single day. You only just arrived," Claire said angrily. "And even if it were yours, you had no right to scratch her face. Do you know how important a girl's face is? What if it leaves a scar?"
Linda suddenly burst into tears. "Daddy, Auntie is scolding me. I'm scared."
She clung tighter to Gilbert's leg, her face a mask of pitiful fear.
But Claire could see through the act. The fear on Linda's face carried traces of deliberate exaggeration, and she instantly thought of Emma's tricks.
Like mother, like daughter.
The child was only five, yet the affectation and scheming of her mother already ran in her bones.
