And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. “A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. 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. I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart. I fight. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals.
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