Kevin Chen, Martin’s father, was equally stately, his dark brown eyes bright with the fire of extreme intelligence. 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. “Dear me, what a relief! If I had had any nerves that man would have trampled upon them long ago. Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer. I could not keep away any longer. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. ” She laughed softly to herself. "Facts convince the most incredulous," answered Jonathan, drily.
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