He pulled down a chair to her left. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. ‘That way. I was always told my mother died the day I was born. . She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense.
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