“Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. ‘Ah, grandpére. 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. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain.
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