“No!” she exclaimed. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. 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. She guessed Jack was having trouble finding the right piece of carving. ’ ‘Yes, but if it is only we that know, it is of no use at all to me. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. "You are complimentary, Sir Rowland," returned the other, with a grim smile.
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