“‘I was thought to be beautiful,’ she said; and she wondered: ‘How long ago was that?’ Who had been the last person to comment upon her beauty, and how many years ago? She thought that it might have been her husband, from loyalty or from still seeing what was no longer there. He had been dead for over twenty years and her beauty had not, by any means, been the burden of his dying words. The photograph had faded to a pale coffee-colour, but William could distinguish a cloud of fair hair, a rounde...d face with lace to the chin, and the drooping, sad expression so many beautiful women have. Poor Mrs May, he thought. The photographs were all jumbled up in a carved sandalwood box lined with dusty felt. There was a large one, mounted on stiff cardboard, of the big house where Mrs May had lived as a child. It had been pulled down between the wars and in its grounds was built a housing estate, a row of small shops by the bus-stop and a children’s playground, with swings and slides. William could look out of the narrow window of the old gardener’s lodge where Mrs May lived now and watch the shrieking toddlers climbing the frames, swinging on the swings.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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