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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. ‘Unless he is himself a man of substance. Suppose—suppose a girl did want to start in life, start in life for herself—” She looked him frankly in the eyes. Once I banged on the door so hard I split it in two.
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