The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. "Because they're in the next room, and the door's shut; that's vy, my jack-adandy!" replied Abraham, unsuspiciously. 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 litter up the room. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. ‘Odd sort of a nun. .
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