One doesn’t realize that even the sort of civilization one has at Morningside Park is held together with difficulty. 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 adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. ” Her first upward glance was one of terrified apprehension.
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