That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. It was as much as I could do to prevent him flying out of the house there and then and coming after you. She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. She stared. “Did I do something wrong?” He asked.
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