The lady with the broom is still there. Her fenced courtyard is free of vegetation, asphalted. Summer, spring, fall, and even in winter, I see her handling her modest kitchen broom, not even one of those big, rough-brushed hardware brushes, but the one designed to move house dust.
Maybe it's the humidity and heat, perhaps there will have been too much wine, maybe I've revised too much L'Effet Casimir, a little bit of that. Sleep was not coming. My old text causes me some problems. I am surprised that the publisher at the time allowed so many mistakes to pass. It is true that in his very early publishing days, he did everything by himself.