“Parlor tricks,” footnotes Philippa. “Many are the misguided,” Alf putting a hand on hers, “who need to believe that’s all it is, poor old dear, seen it a hundred times, hasn’t she, but can’t admit it.” While not a dues-paying member of the Society for Psychical Research, Alf is more sensitized in these matters than Philippa, who attends impatiently to her fingernails or hums music hall tunes whenever Alf reports a sighting of uncertain luminosity, or a wordless voice that might be more than wind strumming the guy wires of the radio masts.
