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. That’s my opinion, if you ask me. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Only after he had pushed himself completely inside was the friction lessened.
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