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. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. ‘You, Mademoiselle Charvill, are as unlike most of your sex as you can be. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. I am a thing to be used. His expression became pained. ‘Do not be alarmed, Jacques.
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