On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. Jackson appears to do, it can't be very offensive to be told, that he's like him. 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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