There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. E. ‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should say the similarity ends.
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