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Later on his way home he fell upon the vegetable market in a sort of frenzy: his old friend George, the Greek vendor who arranged his wares like weapons in an armoury, or jewels on a tray, actually stepped out from behind his stall to lay a heavy hand on Yashim’s arm.

‘Slow. Slow,’ he said in his bass profundo. ‘You puts in this basket like a Greek robbers, this, that, everything. Say to George, what you wants to cook.’