A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. 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. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. Sir John hesitated, and then continued. We are not animals. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven. I'll go alone.
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