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. “It was just an hour before teatime,” she remarked. The windows which were about nine feet from the floor, had no glass; but were secured by thick iron bars, and an oaken beam. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse.
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