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. “And how did you find us here?”
“I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and
cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in
the wall. They say it hasn't been opened for eight years—but I won't be eight years in
getting out of it. So equipped, she proposed to set up a
separate establishment in the world.
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This video was uploaded to indienet.info on 28-06-2024 13:13:59