. . . he found his host ensconced in a corner, looking like a lecherous Old Testament prophet in evening dress and decorations, drinking
bull’s blood and trying to converse in what might have been a Balkan language with a buxom waitress in native costume.
‘You don’t know the Hungarian for bosom?’ he was saying. ‘Well, you ought to, of all people . . . here, I’ll show you — ah, there you are, Yankee, arriving inopportunely as usual.’
Mr American,
p.517,
Pan Books, paperback edition 1982.
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