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. “Ritter’s!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street. Wood rushed instantly to meet them. ” Annabel rose to her feet. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone.
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