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. CHAPTER XXIII. Until he felt a sharpness digging into his coat at the point of his heart. "Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. He had not remembered her as looking so small.
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