Perfect
“‘This is not good,’ he said. ‘It does not reflect well on your mother.’ ‘But the accident was not her fault.’ ‘All the same,’ said James. ‘If there is evidence of an actual wound, it makes things more complicated. Supposing Beverley goes to the police?’ ‘She won’t do that. Beverley likes my mother. My mother was the only one who was nice to her.’ ‘You are going to have to watch closely.’ ‘But we are not going to see Beverley again.’ ‘Hm,’ said James, and he twiddled his fringe to show he was th...inking. ‘We have to set up a further meeting.’ The next morning Byron and his mother were walking up through the meadow after feeding the ducks. Lucy was still sleeping. Diana had climbed the fence to fetch eggs, and they carried them, one each, treading carefully through the grass. The sun was not yet fully risen and, caught in the low, weak shaft of light, the dew shone silver over the meadow although the crust of earth beneath was hard and cracked. The ox-eye daisies made white pools on the lower hills while every tree sprang a black leak away from the sun’s light.MoreLess
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