Oddly, he was seldom angry with her as Gianfrancesco would have been. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. 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.
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