She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. He pulsed and thrust as he released himself into her body. 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. " In this temper, it will naturally be imagined, that Mrs. Melusine sighed with relief at being alone at last and free to resume her search among the portraits. Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly.
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