‘In my opinion,’ said Miss Arbuthnot, ‘the child is not in her right mind.’

The matron of the Lily Arbuthnot Orphanage inclined her head, not wishing to contradict the orphanage’s founder and owner.

‘Gomez,’ said Miss Arbuthnot. ‘Why did we call her Gomez?’

‘The father, actually, was a Gomez. She was a child of the Adeline Street disaster. Both parents – ’

‘Perished,’ interrupted Miss Arbuthnot sharply, for this was the word she preferred  in her orphanage when death was meant.

Miss Arbuthnot was a white lady of fifty-one who dressed herself always in black, a black suit and a blouse with little pearl buttons, and black polished shoes with fine, neatly tied laces. Her hair  was full of hairpins. It was coiled on her head, the hairpins holding it  perfectly in place, thick grey hair that had been black also. Miss Arbuthnot was beautiful; even at fifty-one there was beauty in Miss Arbuthnot’s thin face and in the way she moved her tall body; and in her hands and her neck. There were laughter lines around her soft grey eyes, her nose was delicate, her mouth slightly crooked.