|As I eased myself down onto the natural sandstone block, I heard his hobnailed books crunch the leaf-litter, above, but to the right of me.|
'Looking for the ghost of Marion', he enquired, a slight wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
'Perhaps, were I a romantic', I riposted.
This may be clutching at straws, but I am looking for Marion's spirit, not her ghost. Judging that to be cutting, I instead threw out a hook about Americans from the mid-west and the quirkiness of their identification with the landscape of Sydney Harbour. And, there ensued a nice snippet of conversation about Frank Lloyd Wright and landscape as the 'other room'.
Marion's spirit is alive and well.