It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Go on. She wished she could steal his smiles and keep them in a box, they had always been so precious. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. 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. "I forgot. "He does," replied Kneebone, "and, what is more surprising, it seems to increase. You’re tired, of course. We remember it. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them.
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