He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls.
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