’ ‘I’m hanged if I can make out either of you,’ complained Hilary. “Your teeth are chattering! I’ll make you some hot chocolate!” Cathy cried. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Heaven forbid. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring.
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