Jackson, I could almost fancy we had met before. He lunched in the Legal Club in Chancery Lane, and met Ogilvy. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. One of these was a classification of women into women who are and women who are not hostile to men.
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