“All right， I have then，” said Digory in a much louder voice， like a boy who was so miserable that he didn‘t care who knew he had been crying. “And so would you，” he went on， “if you’d lived all your life in the country and had a pony， and a river at the bottom of the garden， and then been brought to live in a beastly Hole like this.”
“London isn‘t a Hole，” said Polly indignantly. But the boy was too wound up to take any notice of her， and he went on.
“And if your father was away in India.and you had to come and live with an Aunt and an Uncle who’s mad （who would like that？）.and if the reason was that they were looking after your Mother.and if your Mother was ill and was going to.going to.die.” Then his face went the wrong sort of shape as it does if you‘re trying to keep back your tears.
“I didn’t know. I‘m sorry，” said Polly humbly. And then， because she hardly knew what to say， and also to turn Digory’s mind to cheerful subjects， she asked：
“Is Mr Ketterley really mad？”
