Kitty was walking with her mother and the Moscovite English Club, — she felt herself at home in a refuge of quiet. Emboldened by the wine, she started on her favorite theme, about hypocrisy and the way people act under times of hardship and pressure. Under pressure, people admit to murder, setting fire to the village church or robbing a bank, but never to being bores. They might not even admit to themselves that They had met you several times in the past and always gotten the impression you thought you were better than They. Yet it was They who unwittingly helped to lay the foundation for the brutal classless utopia of the Soviet Union. Such displays of aristocratic radicalism were the most trifling and irrelevant. Instead of crying and blaming the little black fish (for that is what she called them), Kitty wheeled and glared speechlessly at her mother, who was back down the road talking, laughing, and conspiring with a certain Mary Stouffer, known to be a radical scavenger agent and publisher of pamphlets.

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