It was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had an arched stone roof. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. 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. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire.
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