I never liked my name. Mary Agnes Hepburn. The Hepburn part was acceptable, just, but Mary; plain old Mary followed by Agnes. Agnes, for goodness sake. I cannot think of an uglier name than Agnes. I used to ask my mother why she could not have chosen something a little different, something mysterious or romantic, but no, Mary Agnes it was and Mary Agnes it had to remain.
Mary;Agnes"Mary was the name of queens," Mother told me, with a smug smile that did not help in the slightest.
"Well, the queens can keep it," I said.
"So must you," Mother"s smile did not falter. And that was her final word on the matter.
It was many years before I became reconciled to my name and then only in the most unusual of circumstances. I will relate them by-and-by, but as in all tales, it is best to start at
