E F Benson

Miss Mapp E F Benson

I lingered at the window of the garden-room from which Miss Mapp so often and so ominously looked forth. To the left was the front of her house, straight ahead the steep cobbled way, with a glimpse of the High Street at the end, to the right the crooked chimney and the church. The street was populous with passengers, but search as I might, I could see none who ever so remotely resembled the objects of her vigilance.