‘Obsessed, that’s what you are. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. She held out the foil. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society. 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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