"There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. He was a London man of business, spending a small legacy in Paris. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. But I don't look for peace on this side the grave. 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.
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