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 so that I may marry an Englishman. All at once she became aware of sounds outside. I had a perfect shoal of callers. “Ye Gods!” she said at last.
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