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The Word from Wuhan

Wang Xiuying

‘The Man in the Red Coat’

Luc Sante

Is it OK to have a child?

Meehan Crist

Short Cuts: Ubu Unchained

August Kleinzahler

Bury that bastard

Nicole Flattery

Surplus Sons

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Alison Light

Poem: ‘1 x 30’

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The Old Bailey

Francis FitzGibbon

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More Marple than Poirot

J. Robert Lennon

On Rachael Allen

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Like a Ball of Fire

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The Staffordshire Hoard

Tom Shippey

Blessed Isles

Mary Wellesley

At the Movies: ‘Jojo Rabbit’ and ‘A Hidden Life’

Michael Wood

Redeeming Winnie

Heribert Adam

Diary: A Friendly Fighting Force

Nick McDonell

Young YvonneWystan Curnow
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Hers sheathed in black velvet embroidered in gold thread and sequined panthered and
ankled Napoleonic by couches to turbaned tantamount no less, slender more supple
even than Antoinette young Yvonne’s body lay ever more African than Arab quite
purple-frogged in pink-flowered tumult. Turquoise was caftan enquired at cost as whose
black velvet glossed was/were gold embossed shoes in repeat sequins do distantly recall
Bohain’s cross-legged frocks of old for then there of which the plucked from a rich blue
ground formed in a plum-red blouse slashed and swagged pants sumptuously oranged
before our Arnoud herself arranged front to back onto green-and-creamed Javanese
batik sashed silks. She’s boredom she said her open book unread personified on their
laps lay the day the long limbed and her quirky for the feature before the cash
fabulously shot silk sample books stashed and seemed several shy over sensitive and
sensuously damasked bladed upholstered next to their skin. In Henri’s hotel rooms
demonstrably magnolia marvellous but threadbare posing arabesque meandering
profusion though far from happy Yvonne’s undoubtedly light airs whereas Lissette
longs herself on lounges for frivolous yet’s twisted listless in toile de Jouy job lots and
stands at open windows flush with fresh onto ocean frilly as actress less Italian
than French as angular as Antoinette.

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