““Elizabeth stood in a model pose, whip thin, with a face beside which the faces of angels are coarse and unappealing, in clothes of rags needing to be hauled off and burned, yet somehow arranged into punk couture. Her black pageboy haircut peeked from under a cloche that appeared to have survived the Crash of ’29. She wore a torn black leotard under a skirt of gossamer net, and the exact shoes Boris Karloff had worn in Frankenstein. Two large lean hounds, one black, one black and white, sported, lunged, and whirled around her. Dave inhaled sharply, in both love and despair.””
