“Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. 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. He was yellow and coarse of hair; flea-bitten, too; and even as he smiled at Ruth and wagged his stumpy tail, he was forced to turn savagely upon one of these disturbers who had no sense of the fitness of things. "I should be sorry to persuade him to do anything his calmer judgment might disapprove. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. We’ll leave him here, with a couple of others. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch.
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