"Well, I'm not far from the mark. He gave her silence in return. 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. Some of the lunatics were rattling their chains; some shrieking; some singing; some beating with frantic violence against the doors. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. ‘If you’ll have the goodness, missie, to move yourself out of the way,’ he said aggrievedly, ‘and let us at him, we might have a chance of doing just that. Your second turn is not over, is it?” She laughed a little hardly. Presently.
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