“Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. ” The suitcase loomed in her memory, making its presence felt once again. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Sorry. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. “Curious case,” said Ogilvy, buttering his bread and cutting it up in a way he had. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. ” She said, studying his face, which seemed to lose its childishness a little more with each day.
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