"Get from under it, Jack!" vociferated Thames. 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 knew very well that his muscles were flabby, and his nerve by no means what it should be. Aided by an individual, who was acquainted with a secret outlet from the tenement, Darrell escaped. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. It was horrible.
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