Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. Wood turned to look at him. "In this pit," he added, pointing to the chasm below, "your brother is buried. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. But that explains everything. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. III.
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