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She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. Jackson. ’ Gerald considered. 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. ’ Mrs Sindlesham laughed lightly, but her eyes quizzed him.
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