returned with my confidence boosted, resolved that when I saw her again I would tell her nothing of what the doctors had said. I wasn’t going to bore her with my private affairs. She obviously wasn’t interested. And how could I even be sure she’d been telling the truth, on that evening of the mulled wine? I mean, the things she said were impossible, folk ballads in prose. Why on earth was I so obsessed with Emerence? Was I insane?
