The Vorsack house bore the stamp of Diane in every visible spot. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. Lucy went hunting on a Thursday night. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. "I yield to fate. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. .
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