“It was poison—why not?” she answered. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked. And in its way it was very well. 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. While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. "Your boast, you see, was a little premature, Mr.
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