“They say she’s the sort of diabolist who gives diabolists a bad name”, he said in a hushed voice as she, the diabolist in question, strolled past us.
“She has such presence, she upstaged a famous and chic writer in a recent film!” he continued, ever so breathlessly.
“Not Anaïs Nin? I mean, the writer who was upstaged?”
“It would never do to say, my dear! Why do you name that star-struck bitch?”
“Ah, just a wild notion. But is this other woman really a diabolist? Or an occultist?”
He didn’t reply.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I opened my eyes. He hadn’t gone away. Nor had she, she was strolling back again, looking as diabolic as possible.
David Miller
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