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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?

What I was referring to, I later realised, was the erotic picaresque of my early adulthood