’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. 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 need give yourself no more concern about Kneebone. ’ Taken aback, Gerald let out a short laugh.
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