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. The iron slipped from his face, leaving it blank with astonishment. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. "What good would it do you to destroy me? For I have courage to kill myself. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered.
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