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December 1, 2001
It is morning, and Raff has left without suspecting that anything is amiss. I am sitting on the verandah, taking in the fresh air and the vista of the garden, and wishing that I was a smoker so I could have something to calm me and keep my fingers busy. I have an oversized cup of coffee, but that's not exactly calming. I don't function well on just a couple of hours of sleep.

Argyle is sitting on the other chair. He has been silent all morning, ever since Raff woke up.

'Have you given up talking?' I ask wryly.