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. Who? Could it be Gerald? Quickly, she looked back at Gosse’s face, and found him frowning. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. He'll mend, I hope.
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