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. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for. "And you will answer it frankly?" "Certainly. She glared at him with satisfaction. But your cracked skull is by no means a pleasing spectacle. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive.
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