remembered the words of the man in the brown suit, and how they had echoed around the rafters of my rooms under the eaves. Yet the man in the brown suit was a figment of her imagination. I should have expected it. She was a spinner of yarns, wasn't she? A storyteller. A fabulist. A liar. And the plea that had so moved me--Tell me the truth--had been uttered by a man who was not even real. I was at a loss to explain to myself the bitterness of my disappointment.