’ *** Martha sniffed dolefully, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with a large square of damp linen. You'll find me at supper. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet. Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. 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. Their houses became a refuge of ill repute, the source of rumor and intrigue in the highest echelons of society. . Quick, now.
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