You reach out to shake the Winfields' hands in turn, and call forth all of the SAT words that you can muster. "It's an indubitable pleasure to meet you," you begin confidently. "The summer is off to an auspicious beginning, and I am exsanguinated about the weeks to come." The instant the sentence leaves your mouth, Mr. and Mrs. Winfield draw back in bewilderment, and you know you've said the wrong word.
Then you realize: you should have said sanguine. That means positive and optimistic. Exsanguinated means drained of blood.
Maybe you shouldn't have let Sydney tell so many scary ghost stories.
"Ms. Martin said that you would be visiting," Mrs. Winfield continues. "You're so kind, to come to reassure us about dear Justine." She glides over to take a seat on one of the minimalist couches and motions for you to sit opposite her. From the edge of the room, the maid slips in to place a tray of tea, coffee, juice, and pastries on the low table between you and the Winfields.
Mr. Winfield picks up where his wife left off. "She's such a special little girl, isn't she? And she does need extra care. You've seen how delicate and sensitive she is." Right. The way she sensitively tore up all the paper in arts and crafts and delicately orders her cabinmates around. "So, tell us—how is she really?"