“Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. It's exactly like a miniature I have in my pocket. 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. ” Michelle sat in a yogi’s posture on the cold plywood, her eyes closed as if meditating. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money.
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