‘Very well, arrest me. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. I cannot think he will welcome a French émigré for his granddaughter. A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night. No idea that you were here, though. . I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. ‘I have only borrowed it.
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