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Part of the silver that the soft-hearted women of the movies had bestowed upon him this afternoon found repository in the doorman's hand. A uniformed boy whirled the revolving door that the dummy-chucker might pass into the hotel. "The coat-room? Dining here, sir? Past the news-stand, sir, to your left. Thank you, sir."
And then, just as the taxi was moving on, over the doorman's shoulder Johnny distinctly saw Bland turn in between the rubber plants that guarded the doorway. A pasty-faced, dull-eyed Bland, cheaply resplendent in new tan shoes, a new suit of that pronounced blue loved by Mexican dandies, a new red-and-blue striped tie, and a new soft hat of bottle-green velour.
He stood there a moment debating whether to attempt to force an entrance against the doorman's unmistakable intention to stop him, and decided to wait instead. The decision wasn't due to common sense, but to a wish not to dissipate his rage on people that didn't matter. He wanted it intact for Rose. He went back into the alley, braced himself in the angle of a brick pier and waited.
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