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lighting his pipe with the fierce blue flame of the afterlife.
London is like a difficult surgical patient; however cautious the incision, anything and everything is liable to burst out.
They sold opiate dreams for fractious babies to exhausted mothers,
books, ranged in deliberate disorder, for the doctor likes juxtapositions.
When she did notice him, watching her from the doorway, you could have raked her off the ceiling.
Bridie is filled with the hot rage that comes over any sane woman who rails against her market price, or the damnable fact that there is a market price in the first place.
Bill’s wife laughs like water draining.
The ferocious smell of human misery takes a sideways swipe at Bridie Devine.
A bleak-faced omnibus of a woman
