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. From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. I bored him. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that.
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