On three or four evenings a week I still find myself taking that path down to the river and the little wooden bridge still known to some who lived here before the war as ‘the Bridge of Hesitation’. We called it that because until not so long ago, crossing it would have taken you into our pleasure district, and conscience-troubled men – so it was said – were to be seen hovering there, caught between seeking an evening’s entertainment and returning home to their wives. But if sometimes I am to be seen up on that bridge, leaning thoughtfully against the rail, it is not that I am hesitating. It is
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