A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. ‘If you had met her, you’d understand. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. I was a novelty. But we can’t help noticing. It will be a little lonely sometimes,” she said, looking around at them, “and I shall miss you all, but it is the fairest for myself —and I think for you.
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