I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris. 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. His curiosity put itself into a question. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me.
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