THE LONDON HOUSE It was strange after this that the start on the London journey should be so curiously unexciting; it was perhaps the presence of Aunt Anne that reduced everything to an unemotional level.

Maggie wondered as she sat in the old moth-eaten, whisky-smelling cab whether her Aunt Anne was ever moved about anything.

Then something occurred that showed her that, as yet, she knew very little about her aunt.

As, clamping down the stony hill, they had a last glimpse at the corner of the two Vicarage chimneys, looking above the high hedge like a pair of inquisitive lunatics, Maggie choked.

She pressed her hands together, pushed her hair from her face and, in so doing, touched her black hat.
"Your hat's crooked, Maggie dear," said her aunt gently.