"What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. Keeping to the shadow of the house, he crept forward until he could see better without, he hoped, being seen. 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. "What is your name?" To-day, however, he broke the monotony.
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