He sucked at her neck, biting her hard, leaving red marks that disappeared as soon as he made them. But she was not to be tempted. 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. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. "If any one's to blame, it's me. Nor Jacques. Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies.
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