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 am yours for the making over. She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. The militia offered little in the way of relief. There’s no logic in these things. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell has got off with his own brat.
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