I believed that our marriage was genuine. 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 got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. She regarded the young man coldly. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing.
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