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. Why not? Imagine I’ve had a fit of hysteria—and that I’ve come round. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. Rousing himself, he went to the door. She remembered possessing it during the Gold Rush. Sheppard," rejoined Winifred kindly.
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