Written between the wars, this is a story about a fatherless family of middle class girls who, like the Brontes, brighten their lives with various shared fantasies. Public characters (like a judge and his wife) are woven into the fantasy. It all sounds unbearably whimsical, and to start with you wonder if you're going to be able to stand it - but stay with it. They're aware that they're treading on dangerous ground when the eldest girl (a journalist) has an opportunity to meet the judge's wife, who takes to her instantly. Mr and Mrs Judge become a real part of their lives, and the mother and older girls juggle fact and fiction with the youngest girl who's still of an age to believe in it all. When on holiday in a dreary Yorkshire village the three girls and their single parent and governess try table turning and seem to get in touch with the spirits of Charlotte and Emily. As people who are prepared to believe anything, this doesn't faze them, and they act on Charlotte's directive to take their young sister back home. Their poor governess is driven almost to distraction by their in-jokes, and then on All Soul's Eve, when she and the child are alone in the house, two oddly dressed ladies come to call... Prepare to be genuinely chilled. And appalled by the girls' casual snobbery. And impressed by post-modernism before the fact.