"You're here on behalf of Rigmor, aren't you?... It shows on your face." Elsa took a drag of her cigarette, breathing in the smoke and exhaling away from the other's face as she watched them from the porch where she was sitting. "It is her you ought to have turned to." Nothing in her voice gives away any emotion. No anger, no sadness, no joy; if her voice was a canvas, it would be blank. "Not me."
"Last I heard she was doing what her peers would likely call fine... what I would call a continuous fall into disgrace. I assume you must either be one of those peers, coming to prove to me how wrong I am precisely... or you need me for matters connected to the gallery." That was where she worked. The gallery in town. "Aside from having rejected my daughter's works and the ability to promise you they will never even be found in the gallery..."
"...I have not done anything else. Not in the present. Whatever qualms there have been between me and Rigmor in the past belong to the past. And you would be a fool to think otherwise."
