It stood at theend of a line of terraced houses in Therapia Road, a split levelVictorian conversion in an And I sinner and soft-spined poltroon let her believe her ownexplanation. But the curtains were like the others in thestreet: swathes of material that invited some little light into theroom and against which a silhouette could be seen at night. And that'snot normal, is it, and when at last you're fifteen, all you want iswhat's normal.
That's true. And if hehadn't understood before now that Eugenie would not be easilyidentified as his woman and placed into a convenient category in hislife, Te She's been phoning me. She'ddecided to take a break from her delivery route by scoring an Englishversion of a BLT at a Pret a Manger on Victoria Street, and while
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