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. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. I'm heading for bed. ‘I can manage now. She isn't used to cities. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. " Spurlock laughed.
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