They drove for thirty minutes, and as promised the roads became twisty and narrow, and then Lucy turned down a drive and they were outside a joke country cottage, with ivy growing up the walls and cows on the hill behind, and Joseph was embarrassed that he’d ever thought about not coming. He had been out of London, but not very often, and nowhere like this. And he didn’t think he’d been to a house that was so far away from another house. There were, as far as he could tell, no neighbours. This probably wasn’t what you were supposed to think – you were probably supposed to think about poetry,
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