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She lived in a remote place where few people ever ventured, near the source of the Dove River in central England. She was a young, unmarried woman who didn’t get the appreciation she deserved in life, and whom very few people loved. She was like a violet next to a big mossy stone, the result of which was that her delicate beauty was often obscured by bigger, more obvious things—it was hard to fully see and understand her. She was as beautiful as a star when it is the only one to appear in the evening sky. This young woman was unknown by people when she lived, and therefore few people noticed when this woman, whose name was Lucy, died. Nevertheless, she is dead and buried in the earth—and, I must admit, it has had a serious emotional impact on me.