Her spirit awoke in dismay to an affection in ruins, to the immense undignified disaster that had come to them. 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. Once before—but that had been different. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge.
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