We needn’t try and give ourselves airs. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights.
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