Pottiswick’s daughter found her tongue. ‘Something in that, missie. The sunshine was brilliant, the air mild. White will present her bill. ‘Like you?’ ‘But I am not French. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. I thank God for the very skin that is peeling from your nose, for all things great and small that make us what we are. For a time she promenaded the room. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America.
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