And now— I suppose I should be considered too old. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. “All’s well that ends well,” he said; “and the less one says about things the better. So far the boy's mind was clear.
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