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. “We were bound to do this when you kissed me,” she sobbed through her tears. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all.
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