CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
“ I say Destiny, old girl, would you mind telling me exactly what it is you are you up to?”
“Me?” Destiny stopped her rummage in the broom cupboard beneath the staircase, the dark, cobwebby one that crawled into an emptier shell than her and smelled like an ancient cask. But then that might have been because Orwell was in the vicinity., as if he was incapable of leaving her alone, she was his favorite family member, or soemthing. Or did he just like swanning about to no good purpose? “Apart from wishing you would stop calling me old and girl? Something that would not have been necessary if you hadn’t lost the house, that’s what I’m doing.”