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. But he would die if he continued in this course. Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. We men are like children. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct.
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