ABSTRACT
It was striking twelve when Bridget and her husband reached home. She pushed open a door on the left of the hall, and touched the button of the electric light. The fire was still smouldering on the hearth. She moved towards it, shivering a little, as she wrapped her cloak closer round her, and drew up an easy chair, into which she sank wearily. Her husband came in a moment later. ‘Why doesn’t Smithers leave a decent fire?’ he asked irritably, kicking the logs together with his heel till he had stirred them into a blaze.
