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. I guess they were bad all the time. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden. “You have them both,” Anna answered.
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