It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. “You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?” “Anna, I swear it!” her sister sobbed. It was now a quarter past twelve.
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