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. Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. “He has asked to see some one,” he whispered to the doctor. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. "Do you know this picture?" he added, with another significant look, and pointing to the miniature.
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