‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. 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. Come and have lunch with me. She stood without motion and without strength. This year—I’ve got it badly. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife.
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