It was the gallows. The folds of a thick muslin neckcloth in some degree protected him, but the gash was desperate. 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. " "Well, take a chair," rejoined Kneebone.
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