After hearing your rhapsodies of a honeymoon journeying through Italy, I had thought nothing better suited for Mr. A and myself. And ... and ... and I find myself in the ruins of the baths of Caracalla, the site of debaucheries Catullus or even Fellini could not do justice to, with a marriage a week old and not yet consummated! My poor Mr. A's health has suffered from the travels, and he remains drugged on Xanax and Scotch in the air conditioned bliss of our hotel. Can you imagine?
. . .
Le Carre spy stories, when all else fails, and facing a deluge of city regulations paperwork
the final well earned thaw