Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. ’ Alderley laughed. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. She owed the nun a great deal, including her command of English, for no one else thought to ensure she could speak her mother tongue. “Come right in,” he hissed under his breath, with the true conspirator’s note, closed the door very softly and pointed, “Through there!” By the meagre light of a gas lamp she perceived a cobbled yard with four large furniture vans standing with horses and lamps alight. You’re of age— you’re of age. .
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