"Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. I just never had anything else fun to do. And let ush go back to our brandewyn, and hollandsche genever. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red corpuscle. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly.
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