He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. Gerald sympathised with his friend’s irritation. He was like a man beside himself. She receded into the entryway, opening her palm and gesturing as if there were an imaginary red carpet rolled out for visitors. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants.
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