The cry was echoed by twenty different voices. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. “Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you,” she said. 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.
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