She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Sara Darnell was a sprightly, svelte twenty-five year old who was known for serving detentions at meter maid frequency, if only to be taken marginally more seriously by the predominantly male Lincoln High Science Department. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. ‘Something for you, Lucy?’ he asked, interrupting a heated argument that had obviously been in progress for some little time before their arrival. “He must never know,” she would whisper to herself, “he must never know. ” “That doesn’t explain sunsets.
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