To begin with, he struck her as being the most variable person she had ever encountered. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. Her fancy dress, save for the green-gray stockings, the pseudo-Turkish slippers, and baggy silk trousered ends natural to a Corsair’s bride, was hidden in a large black-silk-hooded operacloak. 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. "When did you see him, my love?" "A short time ago," replied the housekeeper, unsuspiciously.
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