It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. It will do its best to overlook things—” “If we let it, poor dear. The boy she had loved was gone. “It isn’t a joke,” she said. "What do you want with me?" "A word in private," replied the other.
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