She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. They vanished through the doorway. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. “Sure, are you sure you’re okay?” He exited off the highway onto a quiet road and pulled over. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required.
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