John picked it up and put it in her hands. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. 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. Well, I am Nigel Ennison’s sister!” “Oh!” Anna said.
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