IN ENGLAND
a whole band takes up its position on the edge of the kerb and plays, blowing trumpets, beating drums and collecting pennies, or an Italian tenor comes in front of the windows and sings “Rigoletto,” “Trovatore,” or a fervid song of yearning, just as in Naples. But I have met only a single person who whistled; it was in Cromwell Road, and he was a negro.
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