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. It had thrust her back with an undignified scuffle, with vulgar comedy, with an unendurable, scornful grin. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again.
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