It's probably unfair even to mention this, given that she is so acutely aware of the problem herself, but Laura Marling isn't very good at talking to an audience. When she sings a punchy new song about a man who refuses to speak for 17 years, it's plain to see how her imagination created the character. She makes a game attempt at stage banter, and any anecdote that is audible is charming. There is also something very touching about her expressions of embarrassment when she makes a mistake during Old Stone. Usually, though, she speaks in a diffident murmur that doesn't carry beyond the front rows.

It's frustrating, because Marling's songs - particularly those about depression, such as the brooding My Manic and I - can be so emotionally raw that you long to connect with the person singing them. It isn't possible to give this fragile-looking creature frequent hugs, so the audience communicate their sympathy in other ways: by falling so silent when she sings that the click of a camera shutter reverberates across the room like gunfire, or by singing along to Cross Your Fingers and the stomping finale of Alas, I Cannot Swim with a joy infused with gratitude.

It's in these moments that you appreciate what is remarkable about Marling: her glimmering voice, effortlessly delivering four fluttering notes to everyone from the crowd. When she sings, she becomes confident: if some lines are delivered with eyes shut tight, it just heightens the drama of the words when she chooses to open them.

There is assurance in her songwriting, too: musically and lyrically, she sounds modern, yet not of this time. And her new songs - narrative ballads that might have travelled to America with the first pilgrims - offer a tantalising glimpse of how Marling can only get better from here.