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. Perhaps you’ve heard—?’ Well, you know, he had. I mean—I mean to do what I can. At length, I shall ascertain my name. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. \"Where have you been, young lady?\" Mike crooned, a large grin on his fat Irish face.
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