Amelia Bisson stood on the grubby London pavement and gazed up at the dark bricks of a Georgian town house. She knew that if she entered the building, via the red panelled wood front door, there would be no going back. What she was about to do could not be undone. Once she engaged a solicitor, she would be castigated as a fallen woman. The sort of woman others gossiped about. The sort of woman former friends crossed the street to avoid. It was not a decision to be taken lightly.

She tucked the stray lock of auburn hair, which flapped across her dark glasses, back beneath the navy rayon scarf that was supposed to be in charge of errant curls. She tightened the knot under her chin, straightened her glasses and mounted the first stone step of the three that led upwards from the street to the door. To the right of the door a polished brass plate announced the names of Sylvester, Sylvester and Robbins. Her appointment was with Mr Robbins, the junior partner. She climbed the next two steps where she stood and drew breath for a few moments, still battling her decision. Her finger hesitated at the circular brass bell push. Then with her mind made up, she pressed the cream ceramic button, labelled 'Push', repeatedly.

It was nineteen forty seven and she'd had enough.