The ticket line filtered slowly into the glass doors, growing louder and more boisterous by the minute. ’ Melusine threw her hands in the air. Why open my mouth if there might not be a need for it when all’s said?’ Melusine acknowledged the logic of this. 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.
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