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Quite some time ago Spouse and I dined at the house of a friend. The friend had invited along another companion, an ancient lady we'd not met before.

The entire evening brimmed with delicious food and curious threads of conversation.
The lady reflected as the talk turned to reading and childhood. She'd read Beatrix Potter as a youngster.
The Tale of Benjamin Bunny: that was her favourite, and she'd possessed a copy when she was little, a treasured volume.
She sighed, perhaps to nobody in particular, that she didn't really know anymore what had become of the book. It was so long ago; but she clung to the thought and the wonder of it.

Still I can bring to mind the name of the old lady's most beloved book;
that she'd lost it at one of the many tangled turns along the way in her life;
and with what a wistful air she told it to us at the dinner table.

But I cannot- try as I might- I cannot remember her name.