By George Galt
Sexual entanglements, the libel go well with of the last decade, an accusation of plagiarism, and a surprising suicide layer this witty, acid-tongued trip in the course of the Canadian media global of the Nineties.
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Leadeth me beside the still waters" He examined the zipper that divided the back of Annabel's black dress. The zipper and the downy neck. He imagined himself leaning forward . . " And laying a long, gentle lick on her downy skin with his tongue. ". . in the house of the Lord for ever" Hold that tongue! " The soprano turned and disappeared into the chancel. Say a prayer for the old boy, thought Max with a pang of guilt. Maybe I just did. He looked down at the order of service. "Eulogy: Mr.
Have you seen the new Wellington? The May issue? It has a profile of Edward Clubb in it. And migawd, does the writer ever stick the knife in. The word around here is that Clubb is suing. Apparently his lawyers have already filed. " "Jeremy Glass," said Jill. "Do you know him? " "Yes. Thrillers. " "Well, he's in for a few thrills himself. He used words like 'bully' and 'browbeat' and 'railroad' to describe Clubb's negotiating tactics. Which is asking for trouble. Those people at Wellington must have a death wish.
Then she dropped her smile. "We're so distressed by what happened. " "Hello all," said Max. The other three seemed unusually friendly too. They opened up their circle to include him. Normally, Max mused, Lilian Tillerman could barely summon his name. Once, in a supermarket, she had looked right through him, as if he'd been nothing more than a few notes of Musak. And Andrew Rice: "No-one knows who you are" were the words Max remembered from the time he had approached the publisher with a book idea two years earlier.