She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. 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 fair boy in the audience who had waved was yet another suitor. “The conventions do not matter one little bit.
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