" "Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance. “Sir John is not at all that sort. Wood's," was the reply. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. 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.
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