McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. “Don’t forget to take off your shoes. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. ” She gave herself permission now to look at this squarely. “You don’t want to go?” “No. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. Her disapproval was obvious enough. There were electric and ice plants, and a great store in which one could buy anything from jewsharps to gas-engines. 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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