Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. “Okay. Suddenly she understood. ‘I did not send you a card because in the normal way of things you rarely attend such affairs. 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—a millionaire. “John,” she declared, “I must eat or die.
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