The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. 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 am an old friend, and I declined to be shelved. ‘I kissed you once, didn’t I?’ Her pulses jumped and she stared. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued.
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