‘What a catalogue. 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. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. It’s John. I’m off to England. “Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him.
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