![Cover of Windmill Hill](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/91xIAnQkEdL._SY160.jpg)
Windmill Hill
![Cover of Windmill Hill](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/91xIAnQkEdL._SY160.jpg)
Afterwards, she thought her life was over, but it really wasn’t; it had just been halted for a bit, then had changed tack. She’d been stripped of one identity but eventually she had adapted to being someone different. She didn’t mind that sometimes she was unhappy, it was silly to believe that one could be happy all the time. When circumstances cal
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It would be her home for the next seven years, until the Great Storm brought Charlie to her door. The cottage had been derelict in those days, and she’d had no money to restore it, not that she’d wanted to. She had only wanted the windmill. She’d moved right in. She only had a couple of bags, and nowhere else to go and she’d simply slotted herself
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her father’s favourite Winston Churchill quote: Success is not final, failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts.
Lucy Atkins • Windmill Hill
She’d never been in favour of public confrontation, but a sudden outrage overcame her. ‘Oh, do fuck off!’ she shouted at his back. ‘Just fuck OFF!’ She felt taller, then, and rather elated – the pain in her arm simply vanished. The man stiffened but didn’t turn. She readjusted her sling, straightened her spine, lifted her chin. People really were s
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But Mrs Baker wasn’t a knitter. Her needle skills were focussed on damage limitation: mending, reattaching, strengthening.
Lucy Atkins • Windmill Hill
22nd June 1921 Dear Lady Battiscombe, I write in the strongest possible terms having received complaints from several Claycombe residents about depraved and ungodly goings-on at your windmill on the evening of 21st June. Two of your guests, dressed in pagan robes and trailing foliage, accompanied by an inebriated young lady wearing a swan costume,
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She reminded herself that her decision to go to Scotland was not rash or deranged, it was entirely necessary. She must tackle Magnus – put a stop to his destructive lies once and for all. Nobody else could do it.
Lucy Atkins • Windmill Hill
She shrugged. Astrid saw then that she’d been badly hurt, badly treated and had, like a winter shrew, responded with shrinkage. Somehow, she’d let herself get so small that she’d ended up in an isolated gatehouse on the edge of a Scottish estate, writing an old man’s life.
Lucy Atkins • Windmill Hill
She liked to imagine that the mills, like trees, could communicate with each other through mysterious networks, sending out distress signals, warnings, messages of support, jokes, love. They’d once been the focal point of their communities, the source of daily bread, and now they were vanishing – sucked back into the earth, ivy-slathered, stunted,
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The thought of Mrs Baker back at the cottage with the dogs, the windmill towering darkly above them, the November wind roaring over the Downs, slamming into the aged bricks, tugging at the rotting sweeps and rattling the fan stage made Astrid very uneasy indeed. As they’d driven away down the hill that morning, she’d turned to look back at the towe
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