One day it was gone. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. . ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. John’s parents were won over. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words.
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