A few weeks later, the daughter of some close friends in New York came to London. Over lunch, we talked about that day and its aftermath. She told me about the posters that had appeared in the streets when there was still hope that victims might be found and identified – photographs of loved ones with heartbreaking messages ("Have you seen my daddy?), and about how she had spent the first night relighting candles that had blown out on the impromptu memorials. It was only when she reached across the table to take my hand that I realised that I was crying. "I'm sorry," I said, "This is the first time I've spoken to another American since…"