That boy was the carpenter's apprentice, Jack Sheppard. 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. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. “But of course it’s aunt’s doing really. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered.
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