
Sybil
Alex Barr
‘Why do you want to sell her?’ he asks.
They walk hand-in-hand from the station, under the glass-and-iron canopy of the shops. This is Buxton, England. The century is fifty-seven years old. Not till they turn into a steep narrow lane does she reply.
‘She reminds me of when I was happy.’
‘You aren’t happy now?’
The crowding buildings of finely chiselled stone echo their steps. His anxious tone disturbs her. Does he think it’s him?
‘It’s not you, Alan.’
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