Old Bethlehem, or Bedlam,—every trace of which has been swept away, and the hospital for lunatics removed to Saint George's Field,—was a vast and magnificent structure. It was the girl. . 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 had looked at it before without comprehension. “They’d better not,” said Hetty. It might be upset. She creaked, groaned, and rattled; but that was only her way of yawning when she awoke. There's my thumb upon it. She twisted to meet him and folded into his embrace.
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