“Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked. A bad sign; it signified that the heart action was in a precarious state. 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. Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. Stanley allowed his paper to drop a little, and scrutinized the hats and brows of their three fellow-travellers. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her.
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