’ ‘Pray don’t,’ begged Mrs Sindlesham, one eye on the general’s embattled features. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet. There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. Below the window he saw two coolies carrying a coffin, which presently they callously dumped into a yawning pit. 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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