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. She reloaded. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. And yet I know not—for the object of his visit here to-night was to serve Jack, who, if your statement is correct, which I cannot however for a moment believe, does not deserve his assistance. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. When he had finished he took up the wine list and ordered a bottle of dry champagne. When the bell rang, she lagged behind as was her habit. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. Her head felt absurdly like one of those noddling manikins in the Hong-Kong curio-shops. The Storm. Every article in the trunk was fully known to her, through a recounting of the list by the doctor. His age was not far from fifty. His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him.
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