"It's a very nice place," Mr. Sims commented, remembering that he hadn't said a word for at least five minutes.
"I suppose it's all right," Arthur Hoode agreed, his thin nostrils twitching condescendingly. He was a small, sleek man with a habit of emphasizing his words with airy gestures of his slim hands. "That section of the palace is the part I consider most uninteresting. After all, there's nothing but row upon row of stuffy little rooms where people come to die. And they take a long time doing it, too!"
Mr. Sims winced noticeably.
"You'll forgive me if I don't appear overly sanctimonious about death," Mr. Hoode said, smiling. "It's just that the other directors and myself decided we must take a realistic view of the situation. A place like this could become pretty morbid, you know, and there's actually no reason why a guest's last hours here shouldn't be pleasant and satisfying."
Pleasant and satisfying—the key words when you spoke of Sunnylands Palace, Mr. Sims thought grimly. Everyone used them—when not going there.
The words gave him a hollow, frightened feeling inside, perhaps because they made him remember the first time he had heard them used.
"It's a pleasant place and quite satisfying," Dr. Van Stoke had said. "There's no need to think of it as some kind of torture camp."
"But why should I go there at all?" Mr. Sims had asked. "I don't want to die. I'm only fifty-six and I've got nine more years left."
"Try and understand I'm doing you a good turn," the doctor had said. "You've lived fifty-six good years; in your condition, the last nine won't be so good. You'll have pains, attacks, you won't be able to do anything strenuous. You'll hate to live under those conditions."