He ignored her protests in order to pursue some impressive line of his own. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. 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. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. Why don’t you go in? Charvill is there. Most of my successes in life have been made with a sort of reckless vigor.
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