"'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the superscription of one of them. He had made himself master of the layout of the house, that was plain. 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. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe from me. It was better even than the hymn-singing. “Steady on!” he cried. "It's a whale of a place.
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