He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Fruit trees had been brought all the way from India so their product could be laden on the wedding table, fruits with exotic shapes and haunting flavors ended the meal, cleansing the palate. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him.
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