Thames, look the door. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. 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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