“Publishers are like lemmings auctioning six figure sums,” she said, as his eye peered into her frilly blouse.  Figures had been firmly stipulated. “Perrier or Champagne?” She tends to say sweetheart. “Do you fancy my crusted ring? How about these crocodile shoes?” He looks into her dark eyes but can’t see her pupils, as thick mascara hangs from her lashes.  She blinks slowly, calculating. A tongue so eloquent, almost dreamy, while waving her hands here and there.  “I’ve been wine-tasting in Northern Europe,” she says and he sits waiting on her thinking: “Is she going to give me this contract to sign, or what?”


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