Julia was very happy. Safe in her old stone house drowsing in the sun, she is soon to be married to Francis. Doris was not happy. Sprowled amongst the grime of her Fulham flat, she gropes behind the breadbin for the vodka that keeps her going and waits endlessly for Francis. And Francis, dreaming of Constance Kent driving the knife deep into the child's throat, smiles.William Trevor's pellucid prose and elegant craftsmanship coolly lead the reader into the pathological world of Francis Tyte – a world where his secret and shabby fantasies feed destructively on his victims.