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Updated: May 8, 2025
He said: "We welcome you. We have been waiting for you. We are glad you have come." Faces surrounded her which to her fresh eyes were not easy to read. Names which she had heard last night became young and old men to her skins red and pale and dark-white eyes blue and olive and black gay, audacious and mocking features. She was dazzled, she did not hurry to understand.
And getting up from his table, he passed the fiddlers with the dark-white skins, out into the Place. He went up the side streets to the back of her hotel, and stood by the railings of the garden one of those hotel gardens which exist but to figure in advertisements, with its few arid palms, its paths staring white between them, and a fringe of dusty lilacs and mimosas.
Gleam of a thousand lights; clack and mutter of innumerable voices, laughter, footsteps; hiss and rumble of passing trains taking gamblers back to Nice or Mentone; fevered wailing from the violins of four fiddlers with dark-white skins outside the cafe; and above, around, beyond, the dark sky, and the dark mountains, and the dark sea, like some great dark flower to whose heart is clinging a jewelled beetle.
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