She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. There was a girlfriend who was mentally ill. 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. Threw it out.
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