White rang the bell. When he was up and about, the idea of flight would return. 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. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. None at all. I sent a message straight. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced.
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