The last time I visited Angela Carter, a few weeks before she died, she had insisted on dressing for tea, in spite of being in siderable pain. She sat bright-eyed a, head cocked like a parrots, lips satirically pursed, and got down to the serious teatime business of giving and receiving the latest dirt: sharp, foulmouthed, passionate.
That is what she was like: spikily outspoken -- once, after Id e to the end of a relationship of which she had not approved, she telephoned me to say, "Well. Yoing to be seeing a lot more of me from now on" -- and at the same time courteous enough to overortal suffering for the gentility of a formal afternoon tea.
Death genuinely pissed Angela off, but she had one solation. She had taken out an "immense" life insurance policy shortly before the cer struck. The prospect of the insurers being obliged, after receiving so few payments, to hand out a fortuo "her boys" (her husband, Mark, and her son, Alexander) delighted her gr……（内容加载失败！）
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