Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. He nodded. “How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. “Yes. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price.
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