The Independent - London, August 11th, 1996
Since I was on my way to the airport later in the day, I arrived on Edna O'Brien's doorstep in Knightsbridge carrying a black bag. She politely suppressed a shriek when she saw it. "Don't worry," I said, "I haven't come to stay for the weekend."
"No, no," she said, steadying herself against the door frame. She is a volatile creature, easily alarmed and aroused: an Aeolian harp of a woman through whom emotion sends shocks and surges of energy. The ruffles on her blouse gradually sank back to rest. "It's just that it's so like a doctor's bag." Her grey eyes travelled appraisingly down her long,...
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