The sing-song girl, seeing Ruth, extended her hands and began to chatter rapidly. 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. “You cannot give me ultimatums. I thought it would be magnificent to have a great house in Paris, and more money than any other woman. Burn your palette and your easel. To witness this girl sewing on a loose button, flopping the coat about on her knees, tickled his ironic sense of humour; and laughter bubbled into his throat. Light flooded the place. He forces an engagement upon her. "Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount.
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