Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. "'Sblood! what's this!" cried Jonathan, in the utmost surprise. “It is very doubtful,” he said. “Have you any money?” “Lots,” Anna answered laconically. It makes no difference. 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. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. It was eleven o'clock.
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