The latch had not fully caught. He could have her in the car but she preferred a more private setting. 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. From the threshold she looked her accuser steadily and coldly in the face. Take my advice.
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