Nuria Monfort lived adrift in shadows. A narrow hallway led to a dining room that also served as kitchen, library and office. On the way, I noticed a modest bedroom, with no windows. That was all, other than a tiny bathroom, with no shower or tub, out of which all kinds of odours emanated, from smells of cooking from the bar below to a musty stench of pipes and drains that dated from the turn of the century. The entire apartment was sunk in perpetual gloom, like a block of darkness propped up between peeling walls. It smelled of black tobacco, cold, and absence.
The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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