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. Cold drops stood upon Wood's brow, as he encountered this obstacle. So he found her when he came round the corner of the spinney. Ennison paused by the little gate.
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