Explore "Love in Chief" by R.K. Weekes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
On the day after the meeting at Swanborough, Noel Farquhar walked in upon Lucian in his room and found him sitting in his shirt and trousers trying to write. It was intensely hot, and he had cast off his coat and his waistcoat and his collar, his tie and his boots, had posted open the door and flung wide the window, and hung across a string of dripping towels to keep out the sun. Nevertheless, he was mopping his brow with a dirty old penwiper-handkerchief, and his face was colourless but for its tan.
"Sit down," he said; "sit down and let me swear at you for a bit; I'm tired of haranguing a condemned desk that doesn't respond. What's the matter, sonny? You look as blue as a thunder-cloud with cholera-morbus."