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Updated: May 12, 2025
Suddenly, as the train stopped, that platform of a Paris railway station was turned into a thoroughly English scene. A wave from Great Britain swept over it, a tall and tweedy wave, bearing with it golf clubs and kitbags and every kind of English flotsam and jetsam. One can't help admiring as well as wondering at that sort of ineradicable, persistent Britishness, can one?
"He's a damned good fellow, after all," one of them declared, as at last he left the room. "He is losing his Britishness every day he stays here." "Been through rough times, they say," another remarked. "He is one of those," an elder member pronounced, taking his pipe for a moment from his mouth, "who was never made for happiness. You can always read those men. You can see it behind their eyes."
I rose and crossed to their table, all smiles, and in my best French heartily agreed with them that one has to be very careful in war time about spies. In fact, I added, I had no doubt they took me for one. This counter-attack and possibly the very noticeable Britishness of my accent rather confused them.
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