Roland had flown into London the night before and slept at the hotel off Russell Square where he’d stayed during the last days of his mother’s illness. The ceremony, at the parish church near his father’s new house in Suffolk, was set for noon, reception at the house to follow. Roland woke late and found to his surprise that he had had an erotic dream. He tried to remember it, but the attempt itself scattered the last traces still lingering in his head. He cleaned off its physical residue in the shower, then dressed carefully in front of the mirror; his father had always been a stickler for tradition, and the words “formal attire” had been printed on the invitation. The rented outfit, which came complete with gray top hat, silk tie, starched shirt, and even a red carnation, fitted him well, and in spite of the absurd tails hanging halfway down his legs, Roland was pleased with what he saw in the mirror. He set off across London in a green Citroen—also rented— and was soon on the motorway.
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