"What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. He told some of the particulars. 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. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. If anyone noticed, he did not report the event.
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