The Daimler ground up our rutted mountain track like a racehorse pulling a plough.
Father put down his axe and motioned us to his side.
As the car bounced to a halt, Mother wheeled herself out onto the wide planks of the balcony.
A woman threw herself from the back seat of the car.
“Clara,” she cried. “Clara my baby. It’s Mama.”
Mother lifted a thin shoulder.
“Go away.”
Then she took herself indoors.
The woman stood irresolute for a moment before slamming her way back into the vehicle.
Eleanor looked at Father.
“Who was that?”
He smiled grimly. “Nobody.”
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