Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. 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. Not a breath was drawn. She regarded the young man coldly. I’ve got to stay at home and remain in a state of suspended animation. Her sister’s words were true. You want industry—you want steadiness.
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