“No, not that I know of,” Michelle replied, her still eyes not meeting Lucy’s. She calmed herself, breathing deeply. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. “Where are they?” She looked around. Good riddance. And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. At once. There are boats on the lake and shady depths and wildernesses of pine-wood. That is so like you, Diana—Pallas Athene! (Pallas Athene is better.
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