They had much to talk about, or rather Miss Prudence had. 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. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. Then he took the pulse. \"Well, to tell you the truth, John Diedermayer. You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from. As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in the wall. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous.
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