Four daughters, one appalling father, six women arguing about which daughter had the worst of it.

Adah. It was always going to be Adah, and if your club doesn't produce at least one person prepared to fight for Adah then I don't know what you're all doing in there.

Bridget's line was that Rachel is the only honest one, because she never pretends to have learned anything; Yvonne said that was a remarkably generous reading of a woman who complains about her hair for thirty years. Gail hadn't finished it. Gail hadn't started it. Gail said "does the father die? just tell me", and we wouldn't, and she looked it up on her phone in front of everybody.

We spent almost no time at all on the Congo, which in hindsight is fairly damning of us. Fiona did say, right at the end and with her coat on, that a book this angry about what a country did to another country shouldn't collapse into a conversation about which sister we identify with. Everybody nodded. Then we identified with our sisters for another twenty minutes.

Seven from me. It's long, I lost the thread in the last section where the timeline goes wide, and Orleanna's chapters at the front of each part are the bits I've actually kept.