Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. Trust you. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace.
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