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. The child was now within reach; and, in another moment, he would have executed his deadly purpose, if an arm from behind had not felled him to the ground. All the rest—Movements! I can live now on fourpence a day. She glanced into his face. The contest was now carried on between Rowland and Darrell. He became ugly and monstrous, dunning her, threatening her, assailing her.
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