Molly is up too late reading and hears snippets of her parents' conversation. They keep saying her name, so they must be talking about her. The girl slips out of bed, crouches by the door and nudges it open a tiny crack so that she can hear more clearly.
"I just worry terribly for her, Gerald. She's never fit in, and it's only gotten worse this term."
"Perhaps we should send her to a different school then; there's nothing wrong with the local school."
"But my sister and I went to Bibington Girls' Academy, and my mum did and…"
"Sarah, just because it was good for you and Elizabeth, it doesn't mean it's good for Molly."
"If only I could get her to stop fussing over dead animals," Mum groans.
"It's probably just a phase, love. One day we'll all have a good chuckle about it."
(Why is it so bad to look at dead birds and cats? I just want to learn. That's what scientists do!) Molly's greatest fear is that there's something wrong with her.