Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. 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. My parents would have given me the money, so that is exactly why I didn’t ask them.
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