“I can only repeat what I said before,” she declared. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. 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. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss.
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