"Your boast, you see, was a little premature, Mr. She was too delicate, too fragile to survive out there. The gong will go at seven-thirty. Modern, indeed! She was going to be as primordial as chipped flint. 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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