I haven't seen him in a month of Sundays. And the children — what about them?
Oh, Momo, I can't tell you how often I think of the times we spent together, when I used to tell you stories.
Good times, they were, but everything's different now — you can't imagine how different.″
Momo had made several attempts to answer his questions, but since his torrent of words never dried up she simply watched and waited.
Guido looked different from the old days. He was well-groomed and he smelled nice, but there was something curiously unfamiliar about him.
Meanwhile, some people had emerged from the limousine and walked over to them:
a man in a chauffeur's uniform and three hard-faced, heavily made-up young women.
″Is the child hurt?″ asked one, sounding less anxious than disapproving.
″No, no, not a bit,″ Guido assured her. ″We gave her a fright, that's all.″
″Serves her right for loitering outside the gate,″ said the second young woman.
Guido laughed. ″But this is Momo - my old friend Momo!″
The third young woman raised her eyebrows. ″So she really exists, does she?
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