And that other woman — the one with the goitre — Eulalie?’ ‘She died too. I told you.’ Madame de Lascabanes turned in extremis to her mother’s nurse. ‘That was my English aunt-by-marriage. At least, she was French, but married an Englishman who left her for the Côte d’Azur.’ Sister Badgery was entranced. ‘My husband was an Englishman — a tea planter from Ceylon. We passed through Paris, once only, on our honeymoon to the Old Country. Gordon was a public-school man — Brighton College in Sussex. D’you know it?’ The princess didn’t. Sister Badgery couldn’t believe: such a well-known school. ‘Sister Badgery, isn’t it time Mrs Lippmann gave you your tea — or whatever you take — Madeira. There’s an excellent Madeira in the sideboard; Alfred developed a taste for it.’ ‘You know I never touch a drop of anything strong.’ ‘I want to talk to my daughter — Mrs Hunter — privately,’ Mrs Hunter said.

Poetry resists academic pretension, just as the mystery of religious faith evaporates on contact with dogma.

…stones, even, are smoother for the dust.