He remained listening attentively. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The door leaned inward. She had very frizzy hair indeed, very black eyebrows, a profusion of metallic adornments about her neck and waist, and an engaging smile. She ran 60 past it with melancholic dread towards the slope that led to the ocean. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. "But he can't be far off. They are rather a long way off, but you could write to them.
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