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Three rings are a good number. Sufficient to draw attention but insufficient to make irritation or hate. She always rings thrice then stops for silence to pervade and men and dogs to prick up their ears and wonder and wonder, ‘What next? Will she ring again?’ She rings again. One ring, two rings. I answer on the third. Her voice is liquid. ‘Wait for me,’ she says. ‘Here,’ I say: a confirmation, not an enquiry; and the line dies and dies and hums. With it my breath fades, till wrapped in her web I am consumed.