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“No, Edward! Absolutely not!” banged her fist on the kitchen table, making the teacups rattle. “

I recall Albert Whitaker once slammed a paper onto the kitchen table, his fist thumping the wood. “

Margaret Davies had just pulled on her nightgown and was plaiting her hair when the telephone shrilled.

Charlotte stood rigid before the mirror, the white satin clinging perfectly where her mother, Margaret

Emily stood before the mirror in her ivory gown, the reality refusing to sink in. The dress fitted flawlessly

Eleanor Whitmore stood by the window, her palm pressed against the cold glass, watching as the caretaker, old Mr.

The Neighbour Knew Too Much “Margaret! Margaret, wait a moment!” called Mr. Thompson from

**Friday, 28th October** He left – and somehow became closer. Or perhaps it was me who finally saw him clearly?

“Don’t you dare lecture me!” Margaret’s voice was sharp, standing in the middle

Mabel Whitby stood by the window, her palm pressed against the glass, watching as old Tom the caretaker