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Lawrence waits outside the auction house, below the poster of the angel by the vacant lot. I touch his shoulder and receive a light embrace. We enter: Persian carpets, gilt-framed oils, bone china, velvet furniture, pianos, crates of art. Once, in love, we lived like this: the dark oak floor, the sea of books and clothes. Invisible children leap from chairs and sofas, crawl under tables, whisper, eavesdrop, play with porcelain dolls, music boxes, chess pieces. We leave, wander the row of shops. Silver and gold merchants loom over coins in the half-light. Gentlemen and aproned ladies guard jewellery, ornaments, clay meat, apple pie, dinnerware. On the other side this is my dining room: forest and cranberry glass, Tiffany’s silver, a feast with ancestors, children, beloved. He says he married a girl who is sweet and merry; they live in the interior, a ghost town.