A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. Men and women are not established things; they’re experiments, all of them. "Don't alarm yourself. "The plot's out!" cried Jack. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. Too late. 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.
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