’ Hilary stared. 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. But she was staring seaward and did not notice the offering. ’ ‘Very good, ma’am. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing.
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