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She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. ‘Certainly you must have seen her. 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 drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street.
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