Melony didn't get it for a while, but gradually she became aware that they had all rolled toward her in their beds and were watching her sullenly. Larch, she could not imagine Larch as anything but a last name—and when she thought of him, she did not think of trees at all. 'I would have brought lots of apples,' Wally said, 'but it's the wrong time of year. Ray would either be out on the choppy sea in his glistening sou'wester or else working on the wiring of the International Harvester in the building called Number Two.
ersity of Maine, where he was halfheartedly majoring in botany, hadn't taught him a thing about grammar. Some of the smaller ones had fallen asleep. They all stared at her. His exposure to storytelling, through Charles Dickens and Charlotte Bronte, had ill prepared him for characters who came from and traveled nowhere—or for stories that made no sense.
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