Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. 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 creeping numbness invaded her. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. ” It was as if she faced a darkness in which was something very beautiful and wonderful as yet unimagined. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. Jack did not advance to meet her.
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