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. "Austin will stare," thought Jack, "when he comes here in the morning. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. “No!” she exclaimed. You see—I didn’t understand. No window. ‘You are an avid reader, I take it. But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. " "This is folly," cried Jack, controlling himself by a powerful effort.
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