"No—Sheppard?" rejoined Wild. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. 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 really what I want to discuss. His course had been observed by the watchman, who directed Wild which way to take.
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