“Duck, Damian?” “The Drunken Duck. Saturday night. Out. Dancing with a”—he moved his hand above his head in a poor imitation of a woman’s coiffure—“a bird’s nest in your hair?” “Imagine my being at The Drunken Duck with a nest in my hair? What would your mother say?” “Are you quite sure? She was so like you. So very like you. I’ve never seen anyone else with just your colour of eyes. And your voice.”
