"Be silent," said Jonathan, in a menacing whisper. 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. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. Jackson smiled and put on the air of a man who knows more than he cares to tell. Her gaze flickered down to his pistol.
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