(See Cover)
The curtain rises, and a hushed Manhattan audience gazes into illusion. The stage is London's Covent Garden Market, gaudy and loud with its night visitors. Out from behind a pillar pops a manlean, lank, cave-chested, middleaged, his head stooped forward as if he were perpetually peering over invisible glasses. His accent is meticulously English, his habitual mood one of irascible impatience. His face scrooches up into a demoniacal, teeth-baring grimace that makes him look like a dissipated Walt Disney wolf, or falls into sagging folds reminiscent of a despondent bloodhound. He...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
