She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. She turned with an effort. 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. I’ll have to make a visit out of town. It wasn’t anything splendid, you know. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. ‘I am Major Gerald Alderley of the West Kent Militia.
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