“Will you sign a used book?” a woman asked, in a signing line. “Of course, I’d be happy to.” “Also,” the woman said, “is this your handwriting?” Someone, not Olive, had already written in this woman’s copy of Marienbad: Harold: I enjoyed last night. xoxoxoxo Olive Llewellyn. Olive stared at the message and felt just a touch of vertigo. “No,” she said, “I don’t know who wrote that.”
