She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. She had never had a real doll. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’ ‘Oh, but yes. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. ” Lady Ferringhall sat with half closed eyes and clenched teeth. Another long interval elapsed. “I can’t.
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