She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Sheppard made an effort to speak, but her voice was choked by emotion. 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. " "You are mocking me, Rowland.
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