soul till believe in stories. I still forget myself  is not t must be said, t important t I cannot forget is t time ial t. algic yearning for t pleasure of books. It is not a yearning t one ever expects to be fulfilled. And during time, t, erpane streo read again—t joys of reading returned to me. Miss inter restored to me ties of tories she ravished me.

    From time to time my fat t top of :airs. ared at me. I must  dazed look intense reading gives you. “You  forget to eat, will you?”  of milk.

    I ay in my flat forever  if I o go to Yorkso meet Miss inter, to be done. I took a day off from reading and  to t tional neer’s recent novels. For every ne came out, ss to a el in e, ely,  ories in existence,  ty  looking very hard.

    After tion of Bet and Beter in t publicity for ings by telling esan. For t S, a street creets of t End and tifled only girl in a family of ten boisterous boys. I particularly liked tally separated in India from tiss, s an existence for reets of Bombay, making a living as a storyteller. Sold stories about pine trees t smelled like t coriander, mountains as beautiful as taj Mareet-corner pakora and bagpipes. Oiful it defied description. er so return to Scotland—a country s as a tiny baby—sed. trees smelled notasted flat. As for the bagpipes…

    ry and sentimental, tragic and astringent, comic and sly, eacories erpiece in miniature. For a different kind of er, t be t; for Vida inter taken truth.

    ture  ternoon at y parents’  never