Barbed Lyre

He narrowed his eyes. St. Aubyn’s movements have a bomb-disposal delicacy. He’ll brush the tips of two or three fingers against his lower lip for half a minute, or he’ll tilt his head slightly backward, as if in response to a tiny surprise. He is fifty-four and the father of two, and has the air of someone who is puzzled, and rather impressed, to find that he is not dead.

I have such a terrible litcrush on this man, it's not even funny. HEY TEDDY FORGET JERRY HALL CALL MEEEEEEE