" "Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard. But as she got out of the train at Morningside Park Station she had a shock. Lucy snatched it up and put it in her pack. So far, however, was this submission from producing the desired effect, that it seemed only to lend additional fuel to her displeasure. She snatched about in her mind. 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.
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