His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco. 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. “What are you doing?” He cried. “Just look that through, will you. Sometimes we had the Illustrated London News and Tit-Bits. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh.
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