I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris. “Mr. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs.
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