She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. 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. She brought the unconscious man down. You need only answer me truthfully and you have nothing to fear.
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