The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered.
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