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           Thetroublewashedidn’thavethetimeortheinclinationtounderstandawoman,hedidn’tseemtoknowawomanwasdifferent,neededthingshedidn’tneed,asheneededthingsshedidn’t.Well,itcouldbeworse.HemighthaveputhertoworkforsomeonefarcolderandlessconsideratethanAnneMueller.Ontopofthishillshewouldn’tcometoanyharm.Butoh,itwassofarfromDrogheda!

           Thatlastthoughtcameagainaftertheyfinishedtouringthehouse,andstoodtogetheronthelivingroomverandalookingoutacrossHimmelhoch.Thegreatfieldsofcane(onecouldn’tcallthempaddocks,sincetheyweresmallenoughtoencompasswiththeeyes)plumedlushlyinthewind,arestlesslysparklingandpolished-by-raingreen,fallingawayinalongslopetothejungle-cladbanksofagreatriver,widerbyfarthantheBarwon.Beyondtheriverthecanelandsroseagain,squaresofpoisonousgreeninterspersedwithbloodyfallowfields,untilatthefootofavastmountainthecultivationstopped,andthejungletookover.Behindtheconeofmountain,fartheraway,otherpeaksrearedanddiedpurpleintothedistance.Theskywasaricher,denserbluethanGillyskies,puffedwithwhitebillowsofthickcloud,andthecolorofthewholewasvivid,intense.

           "That’sMountBartleFrere,"saidAnne,pointingtotheisolatedpeak."Sixthousandfeetstraightupoutofasea-levelplain.Theysayit’ssolidtin,butthere’snohopeofminingitforthejungle."