I can get into my clothes. Why should you want to shield him?" "I really don't know. 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. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. Her aunt went off at a tangent. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He would pick a random member of the ever-shifting household for the sake of example. They had chosen to deliberately and wickedly insult a lady who had done her best to entertain them for many weeks.
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