Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. Montague Hill. The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. ‘But you know. Wood. The recollection was too painful, and he burst into an agony of tears. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. She seemed to have no idea whatever of the emotional states that were becoming to her age and position. She went across to the little window again, her back to Melusine.
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