What had happened to it? She had broken it, certainly. 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. It still failed in something. "Hear the letter," said Ireton, breaking the seal. Her pulses began to race. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her.
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