She was shut up with Papa, tight, in the narrow cab that smelt of the
mews. Papa, sitting slantways, nearly filled the cab. He was quiet and
sad, almost as if he were sorry she was going.
His sadness and quietness fascinated her. He had a mysterious, wonderful,
secret life going on in him. Funny you should think of it for the first
time in the cab. Supposing you stroked his hand. Better not. He mightn't
like it.
Not forty minutes from Liverpool Street to Victoria. If only cabs didn't
smell so.