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. And the hunter home from the hill. Let me see now. ‘Again?’ Another simple parry. She had underestimated his animal ability to sense weakness. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips.
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