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. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. "Shotbolt! by—" cried Austin, as the captive was dragged forth. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back.
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