Myrtle walked up and down in her bedroom. She could not believe the nerve of the servant girl, Milla.
“I told Mishka long ago that she should not make friends with the servants! But no, she always knows better. She carried on making the girl her friend and maybe even her confidant.
Now the girl is strutting around calling herself a filmmaker. What does she think of herself?” Myrtle ranted and raved, talking to herself.
Her shoulder-length, silver-grey hair was standing wild from the way that she had ruffled it.
“I should talk to Mishka and her father about this at dinner,” Myrtle continued.
She got dressed into a formal blue dress and rang the bell for service.
At least, with my hair in order I will feel like my old self again. More in control of what’s going on around me,” she mumbled to herself as she went to sit down on a chair in front of the mirror.