He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her. 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. Melusine glanced at the walls as she sped down the four flights of stairs, and noted with relief that some paintings remained. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. This started a thought moving. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked.
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