iced t he would have cared.

    But er did keep trol and out of sig any t eful for ter’s reign tile neigo come complaining about tive to visit tco leave, even for a minute, t realm of tion t ed  erritory, er;  of ered irely satisfactory.

    er riump ato, but t girl couldn’t do, once s o it.

    Miss inter paused,  fixedly on t presented itself to y t and me. At tress. A connected o , I  to break it, but equally anxious for  to stop ory.

    thened.

    ‘And you?“ I prompted softly. ” about you?“

    ‘Me?“ S rouble.“

    ‘trouble?“

    S and looked at me  thread.

    ‘I t’s enougoday. You can go now.“

    tory of er, I fell quickly back into my routine. In tened to Miss inter tell me ory, ebook. Later in my room, rusty sranscribed o ter’s voice in my ear; later, en, I felt my face rearranging itself into  ic gestures, urned to pictures in my er, clean and neat and surrounded by a silvery gleam, an all-body  greime, encompassing first s inants. transformed from a sloo one , briger’s so be cy, malnouriso a clean, affectionate and plump little girl. er cast  even into topiary garden,  fortside t not seen. And Jorangely named gardener, brooding on its perimeter, reluctant to be drao t. And Adeline, terious and dark-ed Adeline.

    For all my biograps I  a box of lives. A box of index cards containing tails—name, occupation, dates, place of residence and any otion t seems relevant—of all t people in t. I never quite knoo make of my boxes of lives.