In fact, the reflection of the flames lighted up the ward in which Jack Sheppard was confined. . He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. There was no past, no future, only this exhilarating present. 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.
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