She looked older, her eyes were harder, and her lips seemed to have forgotten to smile.They would smile when she was singing, in that staged artificial smile.But in repose they were thin and tight and angry.She moved over to the desk and stood looking down, as if counting the copper ornaments.She saw the cut glass decanter, took the stopper out, poured herself a drink and tossed it down with a quick flip of the wrist."You're a man named Marlowe?" she asked, looking at me.She put her hips against... read more
