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. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. Norris, she revived a little. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. She ran away from you; and now I can easily understand why. There has never been a white woman at McClintock's. Perhaps, as you say, I do not really care—but I cannot do it. Go to her and tell her.
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