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Byline: Mary Blume
Certainly I had no right to be in the house of Balenciaga and was there only because of the jam made by my friend George, an English remittance man paid a small allowance to stay away from the family bank in Hong Kong. I was leading the uneasily shiftless life of a job hunter in Paris, while George's shiftlessness, if equally straitened, was easeful since he had no intention of dulling it by work. We each lived in cheap hotel rooms, mine dreary since I knew no one, George's frequently refined by worldly women who thought it exotic to have a lunch cooked on an amusing young foreigner's hot plate. It was after one of these meals that George ...