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Notwithstanding that Peter occupied an undue share of my waking thoughts for the next few days, perhaps a week went by before I found it convenient to seek him out again. One afternoon, I shook myself free from other entertainments and made my way in a taxi-auto to the apartment in the street near the Rue Blanche. The concierge, who was knitting at a little window adjacent to the door, informed me that to the best of her belief Monsieur Whiffle was athome. Venturing to operate the ascenseur alone, I was somewhat proud of my success in reaching the fourth floor without accident. Standing before Peter's door, I could hear the sound of a woman's voice, singing Manon's farewell to her little table:

The voice was a somewhat uncertain soprano with a too persistent larmoyante quality. When it ceased, I pressed the button and the door was opened by