When I carried you up here like a bride, that is the way I wanted us to be, Mary Lucia. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. ’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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