” A bureaucratic three hours later, the paperwork was finished. Cathy chimed. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. As though accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. We’ll leave him here, with a couple of others. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray.
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