nner of speaking. t old enougo be valuable for tant enougo be souger by collectors, my co me, even if, as often as not, tside. No matter ents, t touc t enougo e them down.

    People disappear ually tural. Yet for some tion to tion. For in te tinue to exist. e can rediscover tone of voice, tten  you. ter you. All t ure s is a kind of magic.

    As one tends tend tten dead to resonate inside my , ters, irred by touc must be very lonely being dead.

    Altouce preoccupations, I can see nonet I ting off tial. I am not given to acts of self-revelation; it rato overcome my ual reticence, I ten anyto avoid ing t matters.

    And yet I e it. “Silence is not a natural environment for stories,” Miss inter told me once. “t t you.” Quite rigoo. So ory.

    I en  matters is t it   to keep. It was mine.

    My parents  t evening. t go out often, and  door to sit in Mrs. Robb’s kitc-door ly like ours but reversed, and t all made me feel seasick, so  rolled around, I argued once again t I  at  a babysitter. I   time my fato be persuaded  Mrs. Robb   eight.

    t t seven o’clock, and I celebrated by pouring a lass of milk and drinking it on tion at my o Lea, old enougo stay  a sitter, after t unexpectedly bored.  to do  off on a erritory of my neairs toilet. Everyt as it icular reason, I  t rouble blos’ oo insubstantial to rest, and ture, s brittle delicacy, cicks if a . Yes, t  in no time. I began to wisress.

    Upstairs I peered into t o see ed to t, to t, I studie