Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. Stanley poured wine. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. ‘Well, only look what’s come of it. Lucy gestured to Michelle to follow her downstairs. But come in, dear.
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