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. She just sat and told me that was her arrangement. With a gesture which was without any kind of emotional expression, the manager indicated the silent crumpled figure on the floor and gave the room number. We thought of starting in half an hour’s time, and trying for a theatre somewhere on the way. ‘But we—mon mari and myself—we have the bonne chance.
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