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. It seemed to them they could never have been really alive before, but only dimly anticipating existence. “Don’t!” cried Ann Veronica, struggling faintly, and he released her. My wife—killed me.
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