The Temptations of the Pleasure
When Boris Tomashevsky told his wife, Emily, about the afternoon he spent on Portobello Road, he neglected to mention the owls made of glass. First, he took off his coat and remarked what a lovely day it had been outside. It had been perfectly brisk, he said, the kind of day that does wonders for the heart. He asked her how her afternoon had been and told her of his own.