I sat on the bedroom window-seat, staring woodenly at Miss Blossom. Suddenly her voice spoke, in my head: “You go to that picnic, dearie.” I heard myself ask her why. “Because little Miss Blinkeyes is right — it would take you out of yourself. And doing things for others gives you a lovely glow.” “So does port,” I said cynically. “That’s no way to talk, not at your age,” said Miss Blossom. “Though I must say you’d have made a cat laugh, walking about in your drawers with that cherry brandy. Fancy you having a taste for drink!”
