Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. They were so good to me. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. . ’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her. 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. Instead of which, more than half an hour has elapsed. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him.
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