And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. 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. Eluding the blow, Jack plucked his sword from the scabbard, and a desperate conflict began.
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