"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ” John gestured. Footman or some such. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. 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. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. .
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