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. “I don’t think you realize,” Ann Veronica began again, “that I am rather a defective human being. Gerald studied the darkness beyond the aperture. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall. Let your father—if he chooses, leave all his wealth to his adopted son. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. Monsieur Charvill, he has not the means to choose different. The doctor would never betray him.
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