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I remember now.

I am inside the house that I have always wanted. Only now I am very small, a little girl again. The bookcases that line the walls seem to stretch upwards forver and there is a nice deep purple edging the dark wood. I wander through the corridors and I meet the tail-end of a queue of other little children.

I join it and slowly snake through the passages until we come to a central place where many corridors intersect. Standing here is an old man on a plinth. Sofas appear around him and we all sit down. With a jolt I realise who he is. Someome next to me says his name is Richard Reeve, but I know it is Philip.

I stand up and walk to him, nervous yet trusting. I tug on the bootom of his cloak and he smiles at me. His wife frowns, she is very fat. He takes me by the hand and leads me away from the rest of the children.

He takes me to a garden and sits on a hard bench in the sun whilst I play. Spoons hang from the trees from faded ribbons and I run through them, causing them to clang against each other and I wonder with a vague awe at who put them there.

I forget about Philip and I find a shallow fountain. The water is very clear and at that perfect stage where the outside day is very hot and though the water is also warm it is edged with cold, a pleasant relief against the sun. I submerge myself and look at the patterns in the light caused by my ripples and the undersides of flowers floating above me.

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