Sunday, 19 July 2009

The Sacred and Profane Love Machine, Iris Murdoch

It's been a while, and it may be a little while longer. I'm drowning in work. In the mean time, stand up to your grief with a drink, courtesy of Iris Murdoch:

Edgar in tweeds (it had not occurred to him to remove his jacket) was sweating freely. Monty was in white shirt and black trousers with the narrowest conceivable leather belt. The room was cool, as he had remembered to keep the shutters closed earlier in the day. He poured out drinks into tall glasses. Gin and freshly pressed lemon, and slice of lime which Harriet had given him, and soda water and a little parsley floating about, like his mother used to make in the old days. Sophie never drank long drinks, even in summer.

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