After dessert was finished, John took Lucy for a ride in his car. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. “For better or worse. ” “Personally,” he went on, “I must confess to a great disappointment.
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