It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. “Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. 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. The crowd dispersed in different directions, and most fortunately a heavy shower coming on, put them altogether to flight. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank.
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