r, I o say so.

    On my , I returned to took t met my criteria. Rig kind of paper, rigypeface. In my room I turned till I found the place.

    ‘… not at first aion; but and in act to , I instinctively started aside  soon enoug  me, and I fell, striking my  tting it.

    tact. Not a single page  torn from. But in any case, he house.

    For a time I sat doing not no matter  make sense of it.

    time  of tograp tray one morning, addressed to me in my fating. It ures from my first day: brambles gros one staircase. I ed at ture of to-face ; over ted. Still, I took it out of tucked it inside to keep.

    t of tograp,  of t puzzling compositions of murkiness.  I remembered  tipping point beter. But my camera ured none of t, nor  possible in t interrupted to make out a stone, a ree or a forest. After ures, I gave up looking. Stuffing tos in my cardigan pocket, I  doairs to the library.

    e  ervie t s could not recall the words.

    ‘?“ I said.

    ‘Your pocket,“ sed. ”You .“

    ‘O’s some pograp limbo state ory and your life, , I mumbled on. ”Angelfield,“ I said.

    By time I returned to myself, tures were in her hands.

    At first s eacraining to make sense of t out a small Vida inter sig implied ations igo a critical line. ito flick tures more cursorily; to s sed to find anyterest, sossed eacer t glance onto table at her side.

    I os landing at a regular rable. top of each a sound like useless, useless, useless.

    to a . Miss int