The carpenter threw himself flat upon the starling to avoid the fury of the wind. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. 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. “Annabel,” she said brusquely.
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