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. “If I cut her neck, you’ll never get the stains out of your fancy car. . For a time he and Miss Klegg contradicted one another. Now lend me your own hand. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. I thought that he was dead. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write.
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