The by now familiar dramatic sigh came. 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. Cathy sighed. And he unsheathed his sword. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself.
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