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 are afraid and angry with each other again."

Mr. and Mrs. Tottenham were impossible. They were childless, humourless and dyspeptic. They were not even funny. There was nothing bizarre about them, or tragic or violent or farcical. They neither loved nor hated each other, there was nothing they did not know about each other; no mystery or fear between them. In the early days of their marriage they had been actively and articulately unhappy. She had had a lover; he had left her for months together and lived in some drab wickedness elsewhere. Then her lover had deserted her, he had been left more money; they had drifted together again, bought "The Laurels," spun their shams and miseries around them like a web and lurked within them. They visited, were reputable and entertained; and kept a home for Mr. Tottenham's nephew, their expectant heir.

"Lydia?"

The thin voice fluted over the banisters. Lydia hurried upstairs, flicked at a panel of Mrs. Tottenham's door and entered, her