‘Is that a gesture of friendship?’ She stamped her foot. 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. The unexpected twist—his disclosure to McClintock—had given Spurlock but temporary relief. Certain it was, that the slightest sound aroused him. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. But I'll not believe it of you.
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