"Are you hurt, Thames?" asked Jack, anxiously. He had not considered this aspect of the business. 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. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Here and there, a building might be seen with the doors and windows driven in, and all access to it prevented by the heaps of bricks and tilesherds.
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