Horrible details recurred to her. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. 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. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image.
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