Scepticism painted Morag's face before he'd admitted the real reason, and she cradled her bitter and cigarette contemplatively. A poor pureblood -- no matter how internally opposed to prejudice she was, there was a part of her that couldn't help thinking good, that couldn't help indulging in a little Schadenfreude. Maybe he wasn't bad, but his blood represented corruption and destruction, and no matter how pleasant, how fun their conversation was, there would always be a lurking thread of anger beneath.
"Pity," she said, despite herself. "But it's always nice to start fresh." She spoke with only half an understanding as to what that was like; she may have paid her own way for a long time, but there was always her parents' -- her parent's -- money to fall back on. It was easy to take risks with a trampoline beneath your feet. "Didn't think about going back to America after you found out about the vault?" She wanted an outsider's point of view -- she was surrounded by so many people who compared the Ministry to fascism it was hard to keep perspective most days. Maybe it wasn't that bad.