Out beyond it was the glaring Egyptian sky, the broken wall, the cruel, dark, big-nosed face with the red, wet knife in its gleaming teeth.

Within the arch was the dull, faint, greeny-brown of London grass and trees.
'Hold tight, Jane!' Cyril cried, and he dashed through the arch, dragging Anthea and the Psammead after him.

Robert followed, clutching Jane.

And in the ears of each, as they passed through the arch of the charm, the sound and fury of battle died out suddenly and utterly, and they heard only the low, dull, discontented hum of vast London, and the peeking and patting of the sparrows on the gravel and the voices of the ragged baby children playing Ring-o'-Roses on the yellow trampled grass.
And the charm was a little charm again in Jane's hand, and there was the basket with their dinner and the bathbuns lying just where they had left it.
'My hat!' said Cyril, drawing a long breath; 'that was something like an adventure.' 'It was rather like one, certainly,' said the Psammead.
They all lay still, breathing in the safe, quiet air of Regent's Park.
'We'd better go home at once,' said Anthea presently.

'Old Nurse will be most frightfully anxious.