Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. 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. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about.
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