Hilary Roding was all soldier now, his earlier grievances laid aside. 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. He changed his mind however, and simply motioned to her to proceed. “Home, of course,” she answered.
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