She's going to have to sneak it past the concierge.  The concierge who bears a strong resemblance to Jason Robards.  Who never smiles.  Who calls her Madame and lowers his eyes.  She's going to have to get it past him.  He would never let her bring it up to her room.  Her suite, rather.  With a lake view.  He would offer to store it for the duration of her stay.  He would promptly lift the phone and dial.  The concierge is prepared for anything.
      What she knows:  everything about her enrages him.  Maybe he thinks he's fooling her.  He is not.
      Perhaps she could roll it.  Create a disturbance.  Distract him.  Let it roll right past on the marble floor, across the lobby; put a spin on it like a bowling ball, until it bumped gently against the elevators.  Unbeknownst.
      She can't stand out here forever.  The raindrops are starting to freeze.  They're blowing sideways under the bright orange canopy, pelting her calves like BBs.  Up in her suite, it is warm.  The maid will have turned down the bed, flicked on the two soft lights on either side of it.  It has been a day!
      The object in her arms grows heavy.  Every time a guest approaches the hotel, she turns away.  She smiles sheepishly and turns away.  She can be charming when she wants to.
      The object is unwieldy.  It leaks.  She'll make a run for it!  She'll mutter something as she runs by.  Like a crazy person.  Some nut.  The concierge is astute.  He may decide it is one of those times to simply look the other way.
      She is thrilled with herself.  Amazed.  A plan!  She steps to the automatic door and lets it whoosh open.  Then, holding the object under her raincoat, she runs past the concierge who lifts the phone and dials.  She runs past in her terrible pointy shoes and there, just before she reaches the elevator, a pair of spectacles slips from the object and falls clattering to the smooth marble floor.  
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