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Cassandra White is not a virtuous widow with her grizzled hair coiled into a bun. She does not wear a series of shapeless outfits in black, and she does not, ever, sit in a rocking chair surveying the scene with her rheumy eyes, saying, ‘Before my dear Harry died . . .’ or ‘In my day . . .’ She does not walk falteringly with a stick and she does not smell faintly of mildew. She does not say ‘Oh dearie me’ when she stumbles. In short, Cassandra White is not the delicate old lady I conjured as I read her advert.