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. " "Very well, Sir," replied Sheppard. Kneebone," she added, with a glance at that gentleman, which was meant to speak daggers, "will do as he pleases. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel.
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