” A little blond creature close at hand suddenly gave way to a fit of hysterical laughter, and caught up the end of it with a sob. One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica. Finally she fell into reflection. 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.
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