’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. Come, come, be reasonable, and listen to me. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. “I will not rob you of your coffee, most dutiful of sisters!” she exclaimed. 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.
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