In later years, looking back to those weeks she spent at Emblo, the thing that Elfrida most clearly remembered was the sound of the wind. It blew perpetually; at times shrunken to a lively breeze, at others pounding in from the sea at galeforce strength, assaulting the cliffs, howling down chimneys and rattling at doors and window-panes. After a bit, she became used to its constant presence, but at night the wind was impossible to ignore, and she would lie in the dark, hearing it sweep in from the Atlantic, stream up across the moor, send the branches of an elderly apple tree tapping like a
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