Ann Veronica glanced at the mirror to discover a flushed and dishevelled disorder. Pray, walk in. 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. The likeness was ridiculous. His little doll. But he didn’t marry her. “My cab with all that luggage would give the whole show away.
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