“The twins were left with his sister, Cris. Walpole, and then to Newgate. The weed was all right. ‘Parbleu,’ said Gerald. ‘But if there is one, how in the world did this mystery lady of yours know of it?’ ‘That, Lucy, is precisely the point that has been exercising my mind,’ Gerald said, turning his eyes once more to the group of French exiles in the alcove. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. 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. A fever of shame ran through her being.
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