There’s no single thing that makes the place so unsettlingly familiar. It’s not the worn green carpet which smells of age or the unfashionable darkness, the high ceilings and ornate cornicing pale over brinjal walls; it’s not the amiable clutter which she supposes is what art looks like if you don’t put it in a case. All these things, in fact, should make Hunter’s home feel close and a little spooky, but it somehow escapes that, as if the combination of anti-minimalism and shadow has created a temple here to a lost chthonic concept of interior design. The sense of homesickness is vertiginous and overwhelming. This is where she belongs, in this hallway with its many books along one wall, the Arts and Crafts silver teapot on a table in the corner by the umbrella stand. She wonders what to call the feeling and thinks: Fernweh. It’s German—the longing to be somewhere one has never been, the grief one feels at the absence of persons yet unmet.