"Do you see any likeness?" "Don't I," returned Jack, bitterly. 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. “It is not an easy matter,” he said, “for me to offer you an altogether adequate explanation. It’s my other side of the moon. “I knew you would begin to see how it all falls into place together. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. She is no longer mine; she is yours. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. She drank her glass of wine, however, and clanked glasses good-naturedly with Mr. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal.
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