And here is a man in his early thirties, feeling as dejected as he looks. His chin is covered with a dark, fine stubble, his hair mussed. He's not all dressed to impress, wearing a long drab brown coat, and equally drab scarf and fingerless gloves. His fingers, which are red with cold, are clutching a few papers tightly. And only just now does
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"I had no intention to ... Apparently leave Paris. Surely I've not lost so many wits about myself that I've wandered entirely away."
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"Oui, Madame. Although I am sure I was just walking down the streets of Paris. A wrong turn cannot explain this."
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"I've already got a coat." Granted, it's not a very good coat, but Bohemians take what they can get.
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