t day I took train to Banbury, to the Banbury herald.

    It o someone  to me, o be so ially a large,  cupboard.

    ‘A  Angelfield,“ I explained briefly, ”about sixty years ago.“

    t period were shelved.

    ‘I’ll lift the boxes for you, shall I?“

    ‘And too, from about forty years ago, but I’m not sure which year.“

    ‘Books pages? Didn’t knorieved anot of boxes and placed t one on a long table under a brig.

    ‘t me to it.

    t. It  uncommon for people to stockpile fuel at time, and it  o take  tal. to be abroad. (Believed to be ... I e of tes—anoto elapse before ts on tectural significance of t ed t it s current state.

    I copied out tory and scanned es but, finding not turned to ther boxes.

    ‘tell me trut er for ty years ago. And sten his words.

    trace of tervie could properly be called a books page. terary items at all  like to read…” by a revieo rest on Miss inter’s name in ter’s novels; ic and just, if unsc it  s t.

    I closed t ne neatly in its box.

    t ion. A device to snare me. ts o dra o be expected. Per ion of tence of George and Mat  least  .

    Putting my  and gloves on, I left tepped out into treet.

    As I er streets looking for a cafe, I remembered tter Miss inter  me. I remembered t, and ers of my rooms under t t  of ion. I sed it. S soryteller. A fabulist. A liar. And t had so moved me—

    tell me truttered by a man w even real.

    I  a loss to explain to myself tterness of my di