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278 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1993
This woman, or more particularly, her Raphael face, her beautiful brown hair, delicate hands, perfect figure, soft smile, green eyes, exquisitely chosen clothes--and so on, and so on--was one of those people who triggers such a reaction that the continueance of even moderately civilized behaviour is an almost superhuman triumph of the will, for which those who manage it should be complimented for their strength rather than criticized for their weakness. Somehow or other she managed to combine a gentle tranquillity with just a hint of wildness, Madonna and Magdalen all in one, gift-wrapped in Yves Saint-Laurent. Potent stuff.
Also, he was a little fellow, showing no obvious signs of hard-boiled commercialism. Across a vast middle there were all the indications of decades of eating the wrong sort of food. Arthur Muller was a model of how to die young, with the sort of weight-to-height ratio that makes dieticians wake up in the middle of the night screaming with terror. The type who should have keeled over thirty years before of clogged arteries, if his liver hadn't got him first.
But there he was, short, fat and with every sign of living to confound the medical statisticians a while longer.