“Excuse me, Madam,” the porter said to me, “Tennis shoes are not allowed in the Breakfast Room.”
My cheeks flashed red hot. I looked down in horror at my painted Converses. They were a black mark against the opulent, rouge-velvet carpet. My beating heart was almost audible over the tinkling piano music and the gentle clanking of fine China tea plates coming from inside. I sensed Will hovering over my shoulder. I tried to soften the blow,
“Not even to just look around—”
“Certainly not,” the porter replied, “We’ll be happy to seat you on another visit, should you be capable of adhering to the dress code.”
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