“Father,” she cried, “I have to live!” He misunderstood her. She was shocked. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. I know what I am talking about. Another instance was that of Toby Tanner—" "No more of this," interrupted Trenchard; "where is the boy?" "Not far hence," replied Wild. 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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