I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. 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 thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time. “What are we going to do?” said Capes, with his eyes on the broad distances beyond the ribbon of the river.
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