Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. Perhaps her granddaughter might marry his grandson. Perhaps it had been pick-pocketed or jostled from her dress in a hunt. 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. Come up stairs, and take a glass of brandy. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. At least I can give you a glimmer.
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