Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. What else was there lurked in shadows and deep places; if in some mood of reverie it came out into the light, it was presently overwhelmed and hustled back again into hiding. 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. Now then. . . Certainly I never met him. ” “Oh, Drummond’s dinner!” she repeated.
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