Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. 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. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart.
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