, , ,

When St. Aubyn had come in—a long cashmere coat over a gray jacket, and his right hand braced and bandaged after a skiing accident—they had asked him to join them for a glass of wine, and for fifteen minutes there had been good-natured talk about the Tony prospects of the recent Broadway production of Pinter’s “Betrayal,” and about a sad decline in the quality of literary feuds.

(Ian Parker, ‘Inheritance’, The New Yorker)