Though they do, in secret, I believe. 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. If you like books and music, we'll get along. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered.
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