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” He faced her doggedly. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Nobody can trust you. 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 hate what I am.

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