After holidaying three years running at White-Lake, Mother decided it offered more congenial surroundings than sooty Colton in which to bring up a family so she put it to Father that we really ought to move there for good.
We took the place of one of the street’s oldest residents who had just died.
When I first entered Number Eight Tees-Grove Road the house smelled of must, felt grubby and was still full of death.
“We’re all going to die,” I announced, “we’re moving into a house of death.”
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