" "It is false," cried Mrs. ” Ann Veronica was silent for a while. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. 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. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. In the upper hall he paused to listen. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. But after all, Mrs.
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