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I have a booking at a delightful Italian place in Marigny.

"We'd better get moving," you say, discreetly muscling in on Cleo's conversation with a doddery, near-deaf professor of Latin. "I have a booking at Donatello's."

"I see," says Cleo. "And did you take the trouble to ask whether that fine establishment accepts diners of my…type? Let me save you the trouble. They don't."

You are mortified. It never even crossed your mind. You've always detested the segregation laws, but they work their sinister magic even on those who try to resist them. You are painfully aware of how rare it is that you sit down to share a meal with African American friends.

Cleo sees your discomfort and shows you mercy. "Don't worry about it, Dr. Spillane. You're not getting out of buying me dinner that easily. I know just the place."

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