Permit me a brief aside on the subject of composition, recollection, introspection, and the effect of each on the others.

     Let me try to paint for you a picture of that enchanting Glynn­scape. Imagine their bed, an improvised four-poster that the romantic and resourceful sisters had created by pushing their child-size twin beds together and . . .

I WASN’T IN THE CROWD that gathered to watch the Nevsky Mansion burn, because I hadn’t been born yet, but . . .

I HAD TO WAIT several months more for her next letter, but when it arrived and I read it, I knew that she had come to a spot where she would be staying put at last, and that I would be able to reach her . . .

A FEW MONTHS LATER, a letter arrived from Sydney, one that she had apparently written in haste . . .

THAT SUMMER I received a letter from Rangoon . . .

WHEN SPRING came around the next year, it brought with it another of Ariane’s letters, one that brought a smile to my face as soon as I began reading it, [. . .]

I DIDN’T HEAR FROM HER again until the following summer, when a letter arrived from Bombay . . .

TOWARD THE END of that year, another of her letters reached me, one she had mailed before leaving Istanbul . . .