You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. “Shut up, you little faggot. 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. “Annabel,” she said brusquely. His age was not far from fifty.
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