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 tall, nearly six feet, and from his stature it was clear that he spent some spare time working on his physique. For he come after her, did Mr Charvill. I didn’t realize—I don’t see how I can get out of it now.
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