Sentence The Threehundredandeleventh
The Addisonian auteur, Allan Massie had watched the two girls walk down the High Street hand-in-hand and now sat in the old Market Square, prettified a few years back with flower boxes and benches and often occupied by tourists come to admire the old Abbey and buy books by Scott and maybe even himself in the Bookshop to read in the sun; but the winter sun was washy and the air had a nip in it still that gave the buildings around The Square a marmoreal cast; he could not find it in himself to calumniate the girls' inclinations – they were honest and sincere, unlike many of his own generation who so often poured abomination on others who dared to present in public what they themselves practised only when safely closeted in private; and he pondered the news of Old Einstein's Gravitational Wave Theory being finally, a century after he propounded it, proved as fact and he asked himself whether sweet Jasmine Jumiper-Green's Quantum-Collision Theory might itself at some future date become a proven fact, or as these things tended to be called, a Law. and it was old
Tavish's twin brother, what was his name, it slithered around his brain and the tip of his tongue, but perhaps he'd had one last glass too many in The Ship, for it would not settle for him to pin it down, who sat beside him now, offered him a ciggie and took one for himself, and then after a drawn-out silence that spoke volumes asked: “have you seen or heard anything of the Old Bugger, Allan, my brother Tavish, who seems to have gone dark, have you heard him mentioned anywhere in those circles in which you now seem to move?”