I grinded for experience before I took on the boss.
“Danny Cipriani is blowing up my phone saying: ‘I’m going to sue you’,” she said, shortly before announcing her willingness to go to prison over the issue.
Only two years older than André, this bespectacled bookworm had, after a flirt with the surrealists, settled down as the editor of Gallimard's literary monthly, Nouvelle Revue Française, better known by its acronym NRF.
The terrifying stillness that haunted this perdulous spot was not among the least of my visitations, as I dropped down on the scraggy verge, imagining that a brief rest would lull or ameliorate the symptoms of exhaustion I laboured under.
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