‘There is Bernadette, Marie-Thérèse, Marie-Joséphine, Marie-Claire, Henriette—’ Exasperated, Gerald seized her by the shoulders. 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. Norris, wringing her hands and wepping, the unfortunate lady was placed upon a couch. In fact, one of them was downright sceptical. I’m taking no chances.
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