‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. I examined the Condemned Hold myself carefully this morning, and didn't find a nail out of its place. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. 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. " Here the chapmen set up another boisterous peal.
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