‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper. 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. That for the men lay near the Lodge, with which it was connected by a dark passage.
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