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I dream always of Blackthorn Cottage, during our first winter there, in the cold of 1947, when we huddled around the paraffin heater, watching the snow fall. No-one could harm us, for we were hidden, far from the street. And, as the snow piled up and settled, we looked out onto the wilderness, knowing that no silent eavesdropper had left their footsteps.
In the big house, even when the curtains were drawn, passers-by could see our silhouettes and hear our music and laughter. I would peep out anxiously and see them pause, bent and muffled against the wind and snow. Their faces would turn briefly towards the light and the warmth and I studied them carefully for signs of malice and understanding.