In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. It’s just hard to keep things from her. 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 mean my cut-offs and boots.
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