Anna thrust hers into her pocket unopened, and for the first time left the house without a smile upon her face. 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. Anna left the room on tiptoe. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. He threw her on the bed.
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