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. If you love me, do not allude to this subject again. "Yes, now," rejoined the infuriated dame; "perhaps, I may never have another opportunity. It was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had an arched stone roof.
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