Crispin heaved a load of waste on to another stack so he could inspect further down. The sheets here were smaller in size, closely written. He peered closer. “Oh! There’s letters here. Personal letters.” “It’s amazing what you get. Well, someone’s passed on, what are the family to do? Mostly they don’t even look twice. Old Great-Auntie’s love letters from Great-Uncle—or someone who wasn’t Great-Uncle, come to that—all tied in old ribbon with a lock of dried-up hair in the knot. She keeps ’em safe for years, then five minutes after she shuffles off, they’re sat on my piles with the songsheets
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