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. ” “John, do you remember me at all?” “Lucy?!” He cried in disbelief. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. “I was never so clear in all my life as I have been in this business. Wanting his coat, when he must have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had cost him something. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. Wood heard the cry. ’ ‘Get rid of the wench,’ Roding said brutally.
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