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 was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Earles was absolutely indifferent. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about.
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