During the week, her uniform was the blue and white scrubs of a nurse, the job she had suffered at for twenty-seven years. Now how in the world was he to get rid of the husband? His luck was in. 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. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely.
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