She was sure he jumped first. She was sure he hadn't let her go before
the car came. She could see the blaze of the lamps and feel his grip
slacken on her arm.

She wasn't sure. He couldn't have jumped. He couldn't have let go. Of
course he hadn't. She had imagined it. She imagined all sorts of things.
If she could make them bad enough she would stop thinking about him; she
would stop caring. She didn't want to care.

* * * * *

"Charlotte--when I die, that's where I'd like to be buried."

Coming back from Bourton market they had turned into the churchyard on
the top of Stow-hill. The long path went straight between the stiff yew
cones through the green field set with graves.

"On the top, so high up you could almost breathe in your coffin here."

"I don't want to breathe in my coffin. When I'm dead I'm dead, and when
I'm alive I'm alive. Don't talk about dying."

"Why not? Think of the gorgeous risk of it--the supreme toss up. After
all, death's the most thrilling thing that happens."

"Whose death?"

"My death."