Fiction | January 01, 1988

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Imagine first a dignified British butler holding aloft a very large teapot and, followed by a serving maid pushing with some difficulty a tea trolley containing cups and saucers and plates of cucumber sandwiches, advancing the length of a smooth and extensive lawn at the bottom of which flows a river, and on the bank of the river a large weeping willow tree, and in its shade six young people and an elderly dame reclining in arious postures opon tartan horse blankets and swatting idey at the flies.  It is August 1936, a cloudless Friday afternoon, and England is at peace.

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