At nine o’clock t morning Miss inter sent for me and I  to he library.

    By daylige different. itters folded back, t  t flood in from till  from t’s doic plants by ts seemed to touce frame retco brancself, slig before, appeared as a mirage of books in t er garden.

    In contrast to te sun, Miss inter ic er garden. Soday, but ra-style erday. In t I sa before: along traiging in Miss inter’s copper curls was a narrow margin of pure we.

    ‘You remember our agreement,“ s do order. No cing. No looking aions.“

    I ired. A strange bed in a strange place, and I onic tune ringing in my art where you like,” I said.

    ‘I sart at t is. Our lives are so important to us t end to tory of t t t is not so.  pieces of string t can be separated out from a knot of ot straigo touc of it  setting t vibrating. Impossible to understand one part  he whole.

    ‘My story is not only mine; it is tory of Angelfield. Angelfield tself. George and Matunes, t. One stention to gs, s one, Miss Lea?“

    Sended not to see it.

    ‘A birt really a beginning. Our lives at tart are not really your o only tinuation of someone else’s story. take me, for instance. to look at me no  you? Accompanied by strange portents, and attended by c no. Not a bit of it. In act, w.

    ‘But ory t precedes my birt are tion come from? ell, icular. Not t I earned it all directly from imes, it is true, s t  my presence as ss and conversations and scenes rose to  afrescable. But sooner or later t