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He was such a grouch.

Sitting in that wing-back with his broadsheet whilst she padded around in slippers… shushing her as she struggled to emit the tiniest spritz of Pledge… tutting as she slapped the cushion she wished was Harry.

The corners of his mouth looked like they had been caught on fishing line. Between his eyebrows were grooves like sunken staples.

Agnes brandished the duster feverishly across the mantelpiece and sang. Loudly.

Whoops!

Once she had picked up the pieces of the urn, Agnes watched Harry swirl inside the drum of the vacuum cleaner.

‘Bloody racket!’ she mimicked.

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