It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. Not all of us, but some of us. But he was now too deeply moved to trace a certain unsatisfactoriness to its source in a mixture of metaphors. ‘For that I shall certainly not leave until you have told me every tiny detail. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. If you talk of your faults, I shall talk of your splendors. Most people, every one I know else, seem to have mated with foreigners and to talk uneasily in unfamiliar tongues, to be afraid of the knowledge the other one has, of the other one’s perpetual misjudgment and misunderstandings.
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