” “Annabel! Annabel!” Annabel stamped her foot. 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. This means of communication instantly brought them to the lobby. "I was going to die, Hoddy!" she whispered.
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