The cinetrix is in the midst of pitching out several months worth of barely read New Yorkers. She's grown tired of their accusing, reproachful glares. What this means, of course, is that she must page through each one first, "just in case."
I found this in Thomas Mallon's November 10, 2003, review of Cecil Beaton's diaries. For Beaton, who "stuck to the rich like a talking sequin,"
[t]he diary became a franchise, an ongoing gig, like royal photography; in 1972, he attended the funeral of the Duke of Windsor, whom he hadn't much liked, only because he thought it would yield a good entry. Where the famous were concerned, Beaton made sure to record not only what engaged him but also what would please customers coming back for the next volume: eighty-year-old Rose Kennedy asking his advice about false eyelashes; the Queen Mother discreetly watching other diners to see which fork she should use for lobster.
Isn't that always the way?
