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. Ann Veronica tried to keep hold of a complicated situation and not lose her head. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. Her canines had receded, but were still 166 prominent. The decision had been sound.
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