In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. Vorsack rose from the table and departed for the bathroom, mumbling something about a Tylenol. ‘But then again, possibly not.
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