With us I think it is Kaput." This was what Vivien had been waiting
for. Asking the man to follow her, she first stopped outside a shop
of military equipment, and after a brief inspection of its goods
entered and purchased a short, not too flexible riding-whip, with a
heavy handle. Then as the trams were densely crowded, she walked at
a rapid pace--glancing round ever and again to see that her German
soldier was following--up the Boulevard du Jardin Botanique and
along the Rue Royale until she came to the Hotel Imperial. Here she
halted for a minute to have the soldier close behind her; then gave
the revolving door a turn and found herself and him in the marble
hall once built for Mrs. Warren's florid taste. "Call the Manager,"
she said--trying not to pant--to two Belgian servants who came up,
a porter and a lift man. The Manager--he who had ejected her and her
mother in 1915--was fortunately a little while in appearing. He was
really packing up with energy so as to depart with all the plunder
he could transport before the way of escape was closed. This little
delay enabled Vivien to get her breath and resume an impressive
calm.
"Well: what you want?" the Manager said insolently, recollecting
her.
"This first," she said, seizing him suddenly by his coat collar.
"I want--to--give--you--the--soundest--thrashing you have ever
had.
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