The note-passer lagged behind with her. "I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. ” Sydney looked at her doubtfully. 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.
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