To city dwellers, the drowsy county of Kent means perfect peace and perfect quiet, dozing to the murmuring of bees, the lowing of cattle, the gentle purl of streams like the Beult, the Great Stour and the Little Stour. But in the Kentish village of Molash, 8½ miles from Canterbury, grey-haired Hilda Hyams, 54, was being driven mad by another sound: a low-pitched, persistent hum. Her novelist husband, Edward, could not hear the hum, but he dutifully checked the water pipes and main, arranged to have the electrical wires near the house slackened,...
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