Biscuit is elderly and enormous and has finally been granted his chair.

She is loud again.

That is the thing I want to record more than any other, because for about a year she was not, and there was a period in the first spring where I sat across from a quiet child at a table and could not remember what the other one sounded like.

She came back.

Slowly, and not all at once, and not to exactly the same place.

But she argues with me at breakfast again, at length, about matters of no consequence, and she is winning about as often as she used to.