At first it was difficult not to laugh, and then after a while there didn’t seem to be much to laugh at: an old man imagining all the fine things going on beyond the international bridge. I think he thought of the town opposite as a combination of London and Norfolk—theatres and cocktail bars, a little shooting and a walk round the field at evening with the dog—that miserable imitation of a setter—poking the ditches. He’d never been across, he couldn’t know it was just the same thing over again—even the same layout; only the streets were paved and the hotels had ten more storeys, and life was
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