Leaning on his broomstick crook, framed in wilderness, he could have made some mock Pre-Raphaelite tableau. But I needed to get a grip on myself. Not everything was in quote marks, or wearing some mystical halo of interpretation.

   I raised my eyebrows. By what game of Telephone had my connection to Richard Abneg become an "after-hours club"? Georgina's arcane English might be party to blame.