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The girl in harem pants stopped just in front of the painting, blocking my view. As I craned to see my favourite Chagall in the Musée Rath, I noticed the silver crown tucked into her hair, the long plait twisting down her back. She turned to look at me. Her eyes were green.
‘Do you like the circus?’ she asked, gravely, not smiling. She spoke in English, with a trace of an accent – French? Italian? Then she stepped sideways so that I could stand next to her.
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