” She was in the bedroom by eleven. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. You steered and I rowed stroke. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. 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.
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