Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. Pretty! Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights! “You shall tell me your faults,” said Manning. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. Shari’s head poked out of the bathroom where she had been preoccupied with preparations for her morning shower. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He felt himself collapse heavily onto her naked body, still inside her. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp.
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