“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. I slaved over it, contacted half a dozen genealogy groups and came up with zilch. She knew she was pregnant when she missed her period in the first weeks of August that year. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view.
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