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. "He'll learn that his plans will be defeated. I have always managed to survive, haven’t I?” She was eager to stop talking about her parents. But a total stranger, a man you never saw twentyfour hours ago! It can't be thought of. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man.
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