’ ‘Do not hope it,’ returned Melusine, snapping uncontrollably. 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. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was.
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