He laughed suddenly, and released her. Wood in a sharp tone. If I’d known, there would have been a different story. 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 is not possible,” he exclaimed. Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned.
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