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Over the course of their visit, Edith and Alfred are forced, simply by proximity, to recall memories they'd simply rather forget. This could be a dull formula for a novel, since there's very little action propelling it into the future, yet Colegate masterfully teases this quiet material into suspense. For starters, she's not above blunt seduction of the reader. Edith, for instance, observes her brother at the beginning of the book: "There he was, in his tattered old coat, without his gloves, needing a shave, nothing to be proud of, and yet she was proud of him; she always had been. If only that wretched woman had not done that awful thing." It takes a confident writer to shill her material so baldly. Colegate writes more subtly about the frightening regrets of middle age, the way one moment a life can seem well spent and the next merely squandered. As Edith writes to a friend: "It is extraordinary how whole pockets of feeling can be stored away, forgotten for years, and then quite unexpectedly emerge in all their pristine fervour, time having wrought no modification at all." Brother and sister both suffer in these "pockets of feeling." It's Colegate's larger achievement to link their lives to the larger passage of English history. --Claire Dederer
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