She had not seen her parents since they’d passed through town in the spring, but they sent a postcard with each new address. Now she wrote to them, asking for money. Her father sent another postcard, announcing that he and her mother were getting divorced, and saying nothing about money. Her mother sent the news that she was remarrying—If you’re ever in Newcastle, do come and see us—and a check for a hundred pounds that, amazingly, cleared. Abigail spent it on clothes at the charity shop and secondhand copies of books she needed. he arrived in St. Andrews on a September day so perfect that it was enough to make one believe in the pathetic fallacy; the iridescent sea, the wide beaches, the famous golf course, the ruined cathedral and castle. Abigail had never seen anything so beautiful, and the main buildings of the university were satisfyingly old, like Oxford and Cambridge. Her first weeks passed in a swirl of happiness; she adored her classes, she met such interesting people, she couldn’t get over how many hours there were in the day to study, or to drink coffee and talk.
What do You think about The House On Fortune Street?
