Activity

The poet is taking the train from the north of England to the capital on Whit Sunday, the Christian festival of early summer, traditionally a propitious time for marriage.

Martin quickly decided he liked her; she was darkly neurasthenic, but a fairly comfortable valetudinarian by now, despite her hot flushes and her migraines

She would ring him and postpone the next visit, her voice somnolent and weirdly hollow.

Tattoos, to him, only looked nice on non-white flesh; and Phoebe’s looked nice, louchely nice on her Amerindian glaze

Remember that homily of Saul’s about ethics and morals, about ethics being money and morals being sex?