His glance came up again and met hers. 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. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. She recoiled. Then he put the paper by.
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