I find open to question. A great deal went against it as a project, whose demands should have been eased through Zob's own profession - although that is in itself complicated. No - but it is ironic, that Glaze should come under my pen, an instrument I'd hoped to keep free of any such taint. That document of course I kept for scrupulously professional reasons, by which I mean that it isn't my fault that it tends as its seed the full and vulgar expos . Marshall Zob, should this not already be known to you, is the perfection of the dead Andrew Glaze, PhD, whose brightest student he was.
Gloves are off.
I shall refute mythologies. Shall prick that iridescent bubble, a falsified lament over Glaze's death. Shall go on saying, that this has been no loss, a passing that hardly caused me to put down my coffee cup, or extinguish my cigarette. I drove Zob, in Zob's silver Mercedes, to the stone parish outside Exe, while over preceding nights I had smiled patiently at his oration, which somehow he always managed to rehearse with a straight face. Zob, whose pallor through recent small-hours liaisons I should describe as aghast, had reached that point in his 'literary' success of luring a fabulous procession of womanhood into his Hampstead lair.