" Spurlock pointed in the sloping fields outside the walls. She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. I believe you’ve crushed a gland or something. 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. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things.
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