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 doctor drew out the contents hopefully. I’ve made no one happy. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. "I was not aware it was in danger," rejoined Darrell. ” “What is there to be feared?” he asked her quietly. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard.
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