Ennison seemed to feel already the shadow of tragedy approaching. 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. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him.
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