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. “There wasn’t. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. “It was,” she admitted. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism.
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