’ A twinkle crept into Mrs Sindlesham’s eye. ” He seemed to be elaborating ideas as he talked. "Oh, Heavens!" cried Mrs. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated.
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