On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of
cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation. 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. Still, there certainly was something in the idea of a treaty. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping
away. So, here he was, on the last lap of
middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war
against Death. ‘You
said?’
‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. It was as much as I could do to prevent him
flying out of the house there and then and coming after you.
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