Edward sat in his usual chair, the high-backed leather one near the fireplace. He wore his slippers, and on the occasional table at his elbow sat a steaming cup of tea. A biscuit, not yet dunked, occupied a small plate beside it. He held the evening’s paper, engrossed in the front-page story.
“Edith, they’re at it again,” he proclaimed to his wife, who sat opposite him in a smaller brocade chair, working on a cross-stitched sampler by the light of a small lamp. “That lot around the corner on Paternoster Row, mixed up in that business.”
“Heavens,” said Edith distractedly, as she chose another thread from her sewing box, “what did they do this time?”
