I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. 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. If you knew anything about Canton ware, you were, as like as not, sorely tempted to stuff a teacup into your pocket. We must never let your father know we went.
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