And on the seventh — and this is the part I find almost unbearable — she paid for a certified copy of it, because she had decided that she was not going to sit across a table from me holding nothing.

She replied on the ninth of February at ten past seven in the evening.

The reply is one line.

There’s a place on Abercorn called Foxglove.

Wednesday, 2pm.

I know what you’re going to tell me.