"Thank you." She meant it. Althought Rita did occasionally lean towards the sensational, the woman did possess a degree of strength with her writing which was born from conviction and determination. Well, as far as Philomena could guess anyway. She admired Rita for her independence and she was positive that they agreed on a good many things, but Philomena had gotten caught up in pleasing the men in her life: Her father, her husband.
"I've been thinking about doing something like this for a long time." She said softly. "But my husband has powerful friends in the Ministry and I was always--consistently--worried that, were he to find out that it was me that said anything he might--he might..."
She waved a hand to dismiss the thought and glanced away from Rita, instead staring at a vase that sat on the marble mantle of a nearby fireplace. Her husband would know it was her who wrote this article. She knew that. Not matter how anonymous it remained, he'd be able to recognise himself were he to read it. That was a risk she was willing to take, though.
"I suppose that I'm getting ahead of myself." She'd thought about making tea, but instead got up from the sofa to fix herself a drink at the lavishly carved cherry bar in the corner. "I met my husband when I was eight years old. He was...already twenty at the time. He was introduced to me as the man that I would marry. This isn't something, I don't think, that he's ever told his co-workers. He likes to pretend that he-he wooed me, or won me but--but one of the most solid childhood memories I have was-was meeting him, being told I would marry him, and thinking he was terribly old."