tion. More t, it  yet.” It sig fidgeted, but eventually it fell quiet. So quiet t I as good as forgot about it.

    a long time ago t y years? Forty? More, perime passes more quickly think.

    tely. tell me trutely I  again t strange inner stirring. tiplying. I can feel it, in my stomac t. It sucks t of my lungs and gna. From being a meek and biddable t  refuses all negotiation, blocks discussion, insists on its rig  take no for an ansrut ecer tcing back. And t turns to me, tigs grip on my innards, gives a t. e made a deal, remember?

    It is time.

    Come on Monday. I o meet you from t four arrival at e Station.

    Vida inter on tairs after reading tter? I don’t kno  ed deftly, take you prisoner. ind t move, ter your blood, numb your ts. Inside you t last o myself, I could only guess er done to me?

    I knetle about Vida inter. I urally of ts t usually came attaco -loved er; our century’s Dickens; t famous living aut ser researcill came as a surprise. Fifty-six books publisy-six years; translated into forty-nine languages; Miss inter y-seven times t borroeen feature films erms of statistics, t disputed question is t sold more books ty comes less from  aining solid figures for tever one ta are notoriously unreliable. t migerested me t, as I sat t ttom of tairs, y-t of information, or lack of encouragement, or after inducements or ts from Miss inter o give up trying to discover trut  I kneatistic, and it  seemed relevant: er  Lea, read? None.

    I sa