“It’s my fault. The room was dark and dusty. 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. Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. This is the first act. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. Jack's friends were allowed to visit him,; but as he had openly avowed his intention of attempting an escape, their proceedings were narrowly watched.
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