Lady Grantham, an elegant woman in her old age, seemed to glide when she walked, the picture of grace and refinement.
She entered the well-decorated and old-fashioned parlor to see none other then her enemy, Mrs. Crawley, waiting patiently in an overstuffed chair.
"A bitch tryna talk about me?" she said, looking the younger woman in the eye.
"Maybe I am hoe!" Mrs. Crawley replied, rising from her seat.
"Shut your fuccin mouth before I snatch your stale ass weave." Lady Grantham said coldly, threatening.
With that, the established woman left the parlor, and left Mrs. Crawley with only their brief altercation to think about.
