" Ruth walked to the companion. 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. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. " "No fear of that," rejoined Rowland: "such vermin never dare to show themselves in this privileged district. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. ‘You are rude, and stupide, and altogether a person with whom I do not wish to speak. Just beyond there would be her heart's desire. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. Time after time he sent Spurlock into this corner or that; but always the boy regained his feet before the murderous boot could reach the mark. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife. The calvacade was now put slowly in motion.
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