The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. “I will tell you as much as this,” she continued. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. It’s 180 endearing. But she did not speak. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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