Sarah, twelve years old, a quicksilver urchin with black eyes that examine the world around her; grave, unflinching, mischievous; the light of a challenge in them. Long thin legs carry her here and there with great purpose.

One day as I stood in the quad, a marauding pack of young scruffs (maybe her age, although I remember them being very short) clambered like chimpanzees all over me, their sweaty little hands grasping and clawing. They swung, wriggled, hung upside down, the cloisters ringing with yelps and curses, as together, mob handed, gleefully, they tried to drag me to the ground.