Chapter 42: Croque Monsieurs.

I looked around the apartment, trying so hard to hide my disappointment.

"I told you it was small," he said, giving me a nonchalant tour.

Everything looks clean and neat and well decorated, but nothing particularly appeared European, except for some decent crown molding around fairly high ceilings. The kitchen is nondescript and the bathroom downright grim—with a wall-to-wall carpeting, a very bizarre thing and an absolutely miniature toilet and, according to Andrew, it's not an uncommon thing.

"Nice flat," I said with false cheer. "Where's my room?"

"Patience, my dear. I was getting to this," Andrew said, leading me to a room off the kitchen.

The room is smaller than a maid's room in a New York apartment, and it's window is too narrow to squeeze through, yet it's still covered with a row of corroded iron bars. A white dresser in the corner clashed with the white walls, each making the other look sickly gray. Against the adjacent wall is a small empty bookshelf, also painted white,