She went past three keenly observant and ostentatiously preoccupied waiters down the thickcarpeted staircase and out of the Hotel Rococo, that remarkable laboratory of relationships, past a tall porter in blue and crimson, into a cool, clear night. A. ‘You are, I think, a gentleman, no?’ Gerald bowed. She could not move. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. He returned her impressive greeting almost mechanically.
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