Earles strode into the waiting-room. He had deliberately saved it for last. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears. 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. “Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all.
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