far.“

    Miss inter conceded a nod. “Miss Lea,” sing a smoke screen around my past, lose reasons, I assure you, are no longer valid.”

    ‘ reasons?“

    ‘Life is compost.“

    I blinked.

    ‘You t a strange to say, but it’s true. All my life and all my experience, ts t asies, everyt o t ime it ted doo a dark, ric unrecognizable. Ot tion. I t as a compost en I take an idea, plant it in t, and . It feeds on t black stuff t used to be a life, takes its energy for its o germinates. takes root. Produces ss. And so on and so fortil one fine day I ory, or a novel.“

    I nodded, liking the analogy.

    ‘Readers,“ continued Miss inter, ”are fools. t-; is autobiograp is, but not in ter’s life needs time to rot a can be used to nourision. It must be alloo decay. t’s rieving bits and pieces of it, preserving it in to e my books I needed my past left in peace, for time to do its work.“

    I considered  o chings now?”

    ‘I am old. I am ill. Put ts toget do you get? tory, I think.“

    I bit my lip. “And e the book yourself?”

    ‘I  it too late. Besides, en.“

    ‘Do you intend to tell me truth?“ I asked.

    ‘Yes,“ s I ation even t lasted only a fraction of a second.

    ‘And o tell it to me?“

    Sion for t quarter of an  w kind of a person are you, Miss Lea?”

    I fixed my mask in place before replying. “I am a sant. I iquarian bookseur biographers? ”

    ‘It’s not muco go on, is it? If o ogeto knotle more about ime to a person