waxwork. That’s all they’ve come to see-one figure in wax.’ Berry had murmured, ‘Two,’ and modestly moved on.
‘I kept some stew,’ his wife said. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Put it on table and see.’ He hung his coat on the hallstand.
‘Jim! That’s a new suit!’
‘Aye.’
‘You
‘I left it behind.’
She frowned. ‘There was some wear in it yet.’
‘Ay.’ He went to the mantelpiece and picked up the letters from behind the clock. ‘Anything in this lot?’
‘Only that large one. Postman had to knock for that. Came Saturday.’
Berry examined it, a large white envelope, too stiff to bend, his address inscribed in a fastidious hand. It was postmarked ‘Kew’.
‘You can open it, love,’ he said.
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