“He never smiled, although not from a lack of pleasantness. It was more a matter of not having a smile born into him, which probably accounted for the lack of lines on his face. “It’s a pleasure to see you once more, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, opening the door of the vintage maroon Morgan. We pulled away from the hotel, smoothly negotiated London’s clotted lunchtime traffic, and were soon on our way to the little town of Crumpsworth, an hour’s drive. Ainsworth Manor, as I recalled, was a few minut...es outside Crumpsworth, which, like all small, quaint British towns—it was in fact not much more than a large village—was founded at some astoundingly ancient date—1270 seemed to ring a bell with me, a hundred years give or take. It took a few minutes for me to become comfortable riding on the “wrong” side of the road. I remembered how Frank had eagerly gotten behind the wheel, considering it a challenge, and, within minutes, drove as though he’d lived here his entire life. I watched the countryside slide by, gently rolling hills, idyllic herds of cows grazing on rich grass, fancy sports cars passing us at grand prix speed, tiny villages with women sweeping their sidewalks.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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