All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. “I think that I know very well what I am saying,” she answered. For hours after she had not been sensible to life, only to exquisite echoes. 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. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. All his dreams shattered in an instant. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. ’ ‘Will you have done, Gerald?’ demanded Hilary, exasperated.
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