“In Paris. Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down. He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero. Pews had been brought in and set in two rows before the huge table, covered in white cloth, that formed the altar at the far end. ” Like most men who lie but seldom, he lied well. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. Were the parents agreeable? Were they of age? Had the license been procured? But here, in a far country, only the velvet manacles of wedlock were necessary. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand.
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