Imagine, Saul said when we had settled ourselves, that you’re a character in a well-written and original novel, a person remarkable for your poise, wit, and presence of mind. Gladly, I said. I can think of several such novels, dozens of them, in fact. But what am I to be poised and witty about? About not making a fuss, he said. I want you to enter into a conspiracy with me, to join a movement, sign a manifesto, against the making of fusses. This was alarming, but I kept up the sprightliness. Why should I make a fuss? He pulled off the knitted cap. It wasn’t that cold in the sun. His hair was
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