Her pulses began to race. “To begin with, I was—I was in the divorce court. My only love is for my poor lost son. 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. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. ‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield.
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