A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. 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. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. E. He stopped before her suddenly.
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