It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. 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. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. “Something. Kneebone. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. His bravado waxed and he asked her to what would be her first date in nearly twenty years. “Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?. ’ ‘Well, let us leave your name for the present. "I can readily see," he said, "why you'll always be as poor as a church mouse.
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