The tin tricolour flag still swings at the top of the church-steeple; the two chintz streamers still flutter in the wind from the linen-drapers; the chemists fetuses, like lumps of white amadou, rot more and more in their turbid alcohol, and above the big door of the inn the old golden lion, faded by rain, still shows passers-by its poodle mane.
Espera, esperaLagun Lagun