We looked up our little guide-book, without which we did not stir in Paris, for the nearest post office, and roared off to the Rue du Louvre to send our pneumatique. French post offices are a thousand times worse than English ones and we were in four wrong queues before we finally reached the pneumatique department. And then of course we had no writing-paper, and had to tear another page out of Dizzy's My Trip diary and beg an envelope from the man in the post office (Dizzy's looks achieved that), and even then we had to pay rather a lot for our pneumatique because like airmail the fee varies according to weight.
That done, we turned our attention again to our investigations.
From ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN, Chapter 11, Madame Bertholet Regrets...
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