"I advise you against this trip, Mr. E. It was a work of no slight danger, for every instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to the ground. “It was your own fault,” she exclaimed. It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. 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. Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once.
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