Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. Wood in the deepest mourning. Little Anna screamed and thrashed as she was torn from Lucy’s skirts. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. She’s naïve, and yet uncannily shrewd at times, and you daren’t rely on anything she says. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak.
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