All of us were fussy, colicky babies from what she tells me. 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. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. “Do not look so uncomfortable, both of you,” she begged.
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