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Dear Reader,
Looking back over the years, I find it hard to realise that thirty of them have gone by since I wrote my first book—Sister Peters in Amsterdam. It wasn’t until I started writing about her that I found that once I had started writing, nothing was going to make me stop—and at that time I had no intention of sending it to a publisher. It was my daughter who urged me to try my luck.
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It was nice to see her father showing such interest, reflected Eugenie, getting supper ready in the kitchen. Over that meal, presently, the talk turned to just about every subject under the sun. It was only as she was getting ready for bed that she realised that their guest had told them almost nothing about himself. He came from Holland, he was a doctor, he had told them, but more than that they knew nothing. Did he live in England now? Was he on holiday? Why was he going to Babeny? Did he work at one of the hospitals in London perhaps? And just before she dropped off to sleep she wondered, was he married?
By morning the mist had thinned sufficiently for careful driving to be safe enough. Their visitor, eating a hearty breakfast, reiterated his thanks and declared his intention of leaving as soon as possible.
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