Margaret Peterson buttons her nightdress and smooths her hair into a simple braid when the sharp ring
**Thursday, 8th May** Blasted thing again. “Hannah! Hannah, where on earth are you?!”
**Diary Entry – 16th October** Bloody hell, that racket again. “Turn that blasted telly down!”
Thursday, 16th March The Gift That Spoilt Everything “Grace! Grace, where are you pottering about now?
“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.