’ ‘But what age are you? Do you not require an heir?’ Melusine asked, her tone shocked. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. They found out Cris had some sort of criminal past, more child abuse stuff of course. She wanted to return his gaze but focused intently on a spot next to and above the brick fireplace, as her music teachers had always taught her to do instead of looking directly at the audience. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. “Of course!” he said. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. Those are all nice things, but it’s not what I want.
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