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. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. They lived alone, mainly inhabiting the castle’s upper floors. Answering him was agonizing. She knew, too, she must not hesitate. But it’s only now I’m able to do it. ” She said and began to pace the hard dirt.
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