“I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. “It was perhaps my fault. “So how about this Friday?” He asked. “Thank Heaven, they are bringing the hors d’oeuvres. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition.
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