“Sold again,” she remarked. ‘The outcome, I think, is in very little doubt. 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 suppose I ought to have been a man. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. “Do all foster kids have the instinct?” Michelle asked naively. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.
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