“Every time we go to that place it takes years off my life,” Miss Anderson grumbled, as if she spoke to herself. “I cannot think what your father would have said if he knew.”
“He does know,” Lokita said very quietly, “and when I felt him near me tonight I was so sure that he understood.”
She spoke with such complete conviction that Miss Anderson did not reply.
They drove in silence until, having passed up the Champs-Élysées and travelled on for some distance, they came on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne to a small house set in a garden that was filled with trees.
It was small, grey and so symmetrical with its wooden shutters that it looked like a doll’s house.
Lokita stepped out and opening the iron gate ran up the minute drive that led to the front door.
Even as she reached it, the
