’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger. 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. I'm heading for bed. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. ‘If ever I met such a pair of lunatics!’ ‘Give me that, Hilary,’ Gerald said at once, ignoring his remark and reaching out for the handkerchief. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness.
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