She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. ‘Is it worth it?’ he asked at last. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears.
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