More people who did not belong, she thought wearily, more defilement and chatter. Last year one of the girls had worn a two-piece bathing costume and Miss Somerville’s early morning viewing through her binoculars had revealed the completely exposed midriff of a girl from Surbiton.

Leonie Berger got carefully out of bed and turned over the pillow so that her husband, who was pretending to be asleep on the other side of the narrow, lumpy mattress, would not notice the damp patch made by her tears. Then she washed and dressed very attentively, putting on high-heeled court shoes, silk stockings, a black skirt and crisply ironed

‘You’ve heard something?’ asked Paul Ziller, the leader of the Ziller Quartet. He had no work permit, his quartet was disbanded, but each day he went to the Jewish Day Centre to practise in an unused cloakroom, and each night he dressed up in a cummerbund to play bogus gypsy music in a Hungarian restaurant in exchange for his food.

But you know . . . with Heini. . . I love him so much, I want to serve him, not by standing and waiting but by doing things. But sometimes I didn’t get it right.’ ‘In what way?’ ‘Well, Heini is a musician. He has to practise most of the day and he likes me to be there. But I love being out of doors . . . everybody does, I suppose, only you can’t

‘They’re rounding up all the Social Democrats,’ said a plump, middle-aged woman with a feather in her hat. There was no censure in her voice; no emotion in the round, pale eyes.

Our passport . . . The passport in which His Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State requested and required those whom it concerned to let the bearer pass without let or hindrance . . . For a moment, Ruth wanted nothing except to belong to this man and his world. With Quin, and those who protected him, one would always be safe. She would even live

Turner had painted it in a turbulent sunset, a sailing boat listing dangerously at the base of its sea-lashed cliffs. St Cuthbert, on Lindisfarne, had preached to the eider ducks which still nested on Bowmont Point, and from the white needle of Longstone lighthouse, Grace Darling had rowed into legend, bringing rescue to the shipwrecked wretches on

‘Gardeners are never wicked, are they?’ said Ruth. ‘Obstinate and grumpy and wanting to be alone, but not wicked. Oh, look at that creeper! I’ve always loved October so much, haven’t you? I can see why it’s called the Month of the Angels. Shall I go and fetch a wheelbarrow?’

‘No, not strudels, I agree. That would be going too far. But there’s one they all talk about. It begins with a G. Sounds like guggle . . . Guglhupf or something.’ Violet put down her cup. ‘Buy it in from the Continental Bakery, you mean?’ ‘Certainly not. There is no question of anything being bought in. But I did just glance at the recipe when I