” Anna moved softly to the window, and threw up the sash. “Me and my bright ideas. 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. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue.
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