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. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. “I’ve never been prone to them. The car ride to the new movie theater, a multiplex, was brief and harrowing. What brings you here?” “I’m here to see my uncle. That is why I was so anxious to leave Paris.
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