With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. 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. She had made her first fight for dignity and freedom as a grown-up and independent Person, and this was how the universe had treated her. One could go to him and tell him one loved him.
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