More years ago that she cares to remember, when Hilary Hanbury-Boyce (nee Winchester) weighed eight stone two and tripped slip-hipped down the village street, face like a fresh opened flower and youth in her blood, the men she passed would whistle, or groan with desire, or stop in their tracks and gape.
Stuttered requests for dates, letters declaring undying passion, Valentines by the sackful, all were no more than a lovely girl had come to expect. The hearts young Hilary broke when she married a soldier of considerably maturer years were legion. But that was long since, the world has moved on…
Today an equally lovely girl walks up the same village street. Her name is Kirsten Holmwood. Her blonde hair flows like sunwashed silk, her firm young limbs and lissom body move with natural grace. She is scared, yet there is a terrible thrilling in her. She has done something terrible and knows that retribution is about to be enacted.
Why has Kristen come to the house on the hill today? She knows well enough what happens to girls who report here, for this is where the local disciplinarian lives. She reaches the imposing front door. Gripping the time-weathered knocker, her hand trembles. She almost turns and runs, but screws up her courage.
Rat-tat-tat…
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