Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. Anna made things for her. Now that she was his, to make or mar, she presented an extraordinary fascination. 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. “Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession.
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