Take me with you. It isn't your duty. ‘Not if I heard him aright. ” Lucy said with concern. He touched it again, and this time it was not withdrawn. 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. It was an impulse.
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