“I wish there was a radio,” Andrea said, leaning back in a thin-legged chair, kicking gently at her purse. Her soft lips twisted slightly as she noticed a dollop of dried tomato paste on the breast of her linen dress. Andrea picked at the broken scab of sauce and brushed away the crumbs. She shook her head and sighed as she heard footsteps approaching. Andrea stood.
Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov