He came to the door and as he opened it a crack, she pushed herself inside urgently. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. You simply can’t. 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 had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. The young man opposite was straining his ears to listen to their conversation. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ1LjExMC4xNzYgLSAyMC0wNS0yMDI0IDE3OjUzOjEzIC0gMTg3OTgzNTY3Ng==
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