When he returned, it was always the same. 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. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem.
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