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shirts of the American kind with buttons on the points of the collars,
They walked to her flat through the rain and they might have been anywhere—Berlin, London, any town where paving stones turn to lakes of light in the evening rain, and the traffic shuffles despondently through wet streets.
Liz wanted to weep at the crabbed delusion of their dreams.
they wanted a decent little club, nice and revolutionary and no fuss. It was all such a fraud.
If anything was over-organised, that was.” “I am afraid that as a nation we tend to over-organise. Abroad that passes for efficiency.”
it was like mid-week evensong when she used to go to church—the same dutiful, little group of lost faces, and same fussy self-consciousness, the same feeling of a great idea in the hands of little people.
