In truth, she had been quite glad to lose the argument about remaining while the bullet was dug out of Jack’s side. ‘Lord, no! I’ve a better regard for my skin, I thank you. The lantern was on the ground inside, ready. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. She was as lovely in the spirit as in the flesh. 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.
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