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. The picture in her mind altered and she saw again the way Gerald had looked with consternation upon the bruises he had inflicted on her wrist. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. At least I can’t talk to them. “I will tell you when to stop. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way.
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