The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor

of us spoke. I was conscious of Mrs Arabella’s proximity, of the weight of her arm on mine, and the way her hand tightened its grip when the going was at all treacherous. Her touch gave me a disproportionate pleasure. I had not been so intimately close to a woman since I had said goodbye to Augusta.

      We turned into Broadway. The street was already busy and here the snow was turning to slush. Prisoners of war, working in groups of two or three, were shovelling it into piles along the roadway.