one hundred thirty-six. [Do you remember that time in Paris when?]
Margaret-Rose never writes to tell him, because she’s never quite sure how to put it: Do you remember when you found me in Paris and you were heartbroken because the love of your life had gone off with someone else and I was sick to death of never being noticed and we drank everything alcoholic we could find and spent the night sobbing in each-other’s arms and then we went home to Provence and apparently we did quite a bit more than that because I’m due in September. The truth would never do so in the end she keeps her silence.