A diversion was created by the violent struggles of the little old lady. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. It probably had its own repulsive oubliette in the bottom, where tiny princesses could fall and break their necks. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. I never want you to be ashamed of me. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. “Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me.
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