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. "Ah! now we come to business," returned Jonathan, rubbing his hands, gleefully. She kissed him on the bridge of his nose. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay.
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