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He reviewed the book. Who? Him that's who.
The two men greeted each other at the book club. He scowled as he perched at the table dressed in a thin faded overcoat of worsted wool lined with delicate Italian silk. And he thought what a pompous fool this one. Sensing hostility he nodded to himself as Anne swept into the room with her deliciously tender yet crusty buns. He asked him with disbelief how could there be trilogy? More like fat capons stuffed with lard and a turkey for an editor. Anne and Mary exchanged silent nods and suppressed smiles at this awkward outburst. George and William shifted uncomfortably wishing they were anywhere but here. Changing the subject, he asked "Will you be journeying to Antwerp soon?" Suddenly he remembered standing at rail of a boat sloshing through the thick impenetrable fog on the river to Florence. Then he regretted purchasing such a book, let alone trying to read it.
