»He’s living somewhere along Telegraph«, he muttered. »I gave you the wrong address.« She took a chance: »Then the WASTE address isn’t good any more.« But she’d pronounced it like a word, waste. His face congealed, a mask of distrust. »It’s W.A.S.T.E., lady«, he told her, »an acronym, not waste, and we had best not go into it any further.«