Les Pompes Funèbres
Black armbands. The end of the war, and London had gaps in it. We were taken to Kettner’s, and had creamed tinned sweetcorn. And Sauternes: the first time I tasted wine. There were
very old waiters holding napkins. I was ashamed because the lining of my coat was torn.
A Roget of cherry stones: Subdued reserved composed demure,
Needful indispensable essential de rigeur.
And later on in Paris. It is a quarter past one. In the grace of ancient poverty she selects, as usual, the horse-mince; and he, leaning beside her faded hat and having removed the menu, pours the little red.
Ah, the pearl grey assurance of knowing what may be spoken, how things should be: time, place, style, act. A paper cloth. Ah, the dead.
Page(s) 62
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