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. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship. See? You marry me. My death, probably. “There’s twenty before you, and Mr.
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