Lucy kicked her side, then her wounded leg, dislodging her. “I love you, Ann Veronica. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. ” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. "The worst house in the neighbourhood—the constant haunt of reprobates and thieves," groaned Wood. ‘A word, if you please, my friend. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love.
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