He kept on looking at me, or rather he kept on looking over me in that surprised way, and then he shook his head and said, "What have you been up to the hell was it that I last saw you?" he asked finally. I said hello to him and added that he had frightened me, to cover any bad-tempered expression that might have been lingering on my face, but he just kept on staring dumbly at me.
He was staring down at me with some alarm. Who should be standing there in front of me, in what I immediately spotted as the Left Bank uniform of the day, dark wool shirt and a pair of old Army suntans, but my old friend Larry Keevil. Michel, thoughts rising in my head like little puffs of smoke, when suddenly a voice bellowed into my ear: "Sally Jay Gorce! What the hell? Well, for Christ's sake, can this really be our own little Sally Jay Gorce?" I felt a hand ruffling my hair and I swung around, furious at being so rudely awakened. It was around eleven in the morning, I remember, and I was drifting down the boulevard St. It was a hot, peaceful, optimistic sort of day in September.
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